


Saltwater

by caricari, eyjayy



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, First Time, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Getting Together, Gratuitous holiday escapism, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Illustration in Chapter 6, Just two supernatural entities having a row, M/M, Misunderstandings, Oral Sex, Rated for Chapter 9, and then making up, hard conversations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:15:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 50,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25117492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caricari/pseuds/caricari, https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyjayy/pseuds/eyjayy
Summary: Eight months after the world has not ended, an argument drives angel and demon apart. Crowley flees south, to sulk. Aziraphale follows, a week later, hoping to clear the air.Set along a coast they have known for six thousand years, the pair have to confront some things they have spent a lifetime repressing and figure out if this new world has space for ‘them’ in it.NOW COMPLETE!!
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 263
Kudos: 401
Collections: AJ’s personal faves, Good Omens Mini Bang, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Just Enough Of A Bastard to be Worth Knowing Biblically, Our Own Side





	1. Crowley

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go - a brand new multichap, procrastinated into being by myself and the incredibly talented [AJ](https://www.instagram.com/theeyjayy/) for the [Do It With Style Mini Bang](https://do-it-with-style-events.tumblr.com/post/621816813787987968/mark-your-calendars). 
> 
> This is the first collab I've worked on, in the GO fandom, and I have had a completely awesome time. My many, many thanks to AJ for their enthusiasm, ideas, and endless beta-reading support. There will be gorgeous story-specific art from AJ, in chapter six, but if you can't wait, click the link above and slake your thirst. ;)

.

There have always been rainy days, in London, when Crowley entertains the idea of just jumping in the car and fucking off south. The cool, northern seasons have never sat well, in his serpent bones. Chill breezes pull at his skin. Damp skies stiffen his joints. He can miracle the sensations away, of course, but there is always an awareness that lingers beneath the surface. 

He prefers the summer, by far. Those handful of weeks when it is hot enough to bask on his rooftop. Those weeks when Aziraphale whinges and the newscasters despair. Bright, warm mornings, hot oppressive afternoons, balmy evenings. 

Crowley was built for heat. He was created for the desert sands surrounding Eden. (Hell hadn’t thought far ahead, when designing his body). There was still something comforting about going back to that initial sensation - returning to base instinct - and the demon is craving comfort, this morning. This morning, he is stressed and upset, and wants to be somewhere far away from the lively corner of London that he and Aziraphale usually inhabit. He does not want to be able to feel even a trace of his best friend’s magic. He does not want to be reminded of their argument. Or the things that were said. 

Dropping a glass into the kitchen sink, the demon scribbles a note, to leave on the counter, and throws a spell around the plant room, to hold them in stasis. He’s had enough, he thinks. He’s off. He’s leaving. He’s not going to spend a moment longer sulking around the flat, waiting for Aziraphale to come and apologise. Seizing the packed bag at his feet, he heads for the door. 

It is impossible to pop in and out of space, within the confines of the demon’s lair. There are too many protections around the place. Some writ by Crowley, over the years. Some writ by Aziraphale, during his brief stay after the almost-Armageddon. 

The demon grits his teeth as they wash over him. Usually, the sensation of his friend’s magic would bring him a very un-demonic rush of joy. The interlacing of their spells, around the brickwork of his building, is a big, outward symbol that they are in this together - at least, that’s how Crowley had thought about it. That’s where he thought they were headed, right up until last night.

_Last night._

They have been through so much, the demon thinks, as he waves a hand to lock the door behind him. They’ve travelled through this world since the beginning - sometimes side by side, sometimes at a distance, but always with one another’s best interests at heart. They’ve watched humanity grow and change. They’ve seen all the horror and beauty that this improbable world has to offer. A story like theirs shouldn’t end like this. Crowley is not a big reader, but he knows that stories don’t end like this. 

Stories work in a certain way. There is a plot, which builds to a climax, and then the protagonists overthrow the antagonists and set the world to rights. And he and Aziraphale did that, didn’t they? They’d faced a plot to destroy the world. They’d fought villains and been blindsided by a twist in the story. There had been a great climactic battle. They’d faced moral choices. Made sacrifices. And, after all of it, they’d come out on top. They’d survived. 

Crowley had risked his life, wearing Aziraphale’s skin up to Heaven, and Aziraphale had risked his life, wearing Crowley’s skin down to Hell. They had both risked their existential souls, in hope of preserving this little life that they shared, on this stupid little planet, and Crowley had thought that was all that needed to be said, really. He’d thought that the rest would just sort of pan out, with time - that the actual words would just spill out of them, one evening, while they were drinking at the bookshop. He thought they’d move on from this and grow, build. So, he’d started to open up. He’d started to share a bit more, pressing Aziraphale for time and contact. He’d gone slow. He’d been careful, patient. And, now… _this_.

Pushing through the front door of the building, Crowley steps out into cool June air. The sky overhead is heavy. It feels as if it is going to rain, later, and the demon is just absolutely done with that. He’s done with feeling cold and damp. He’s done with London’s grey skies and constant clamour. He wants heat and ocean air. He wants to be far away from here and he wants Aziraphale to know about it - because the angel has been a complete ass. 

Crowley is the king of self-deprecation, but even he knows that he doesn’t deserve this. So, he’s off. He’s heading south and he’s going to stay there until he can’t remember what it feels like to feel cold, or rejected, or unwanted. 

Throwing the bag into the car, the demon throws himself in after it, and pulls the door closed with an almighty slam. As the engine burns into life, Crowley summons all of the roiling demonic energy from the ether around him, and snaps the lot of it - the bag, the car, and himself - out of existence on the grey London street, and into existence on a narrow switchback road, high on a hillside. 

Out of existence in one country. Into it in another. 

It is a huge amount of magic. A truly preposterous amount. In days gone by, he would have been given a good hiding for such an action. Now, the demon is accountable to nobody. It will draw attention if he keeps making massive withdrawals, but he thinks he’s due at least one. And he’s feeling reckless, besides. Why shouldn’t he do something for himself, for a change?

Waving a hand, Crowley changes up his sunglasses, going for something a little wider. A different style. He’s been feeling a change was in order for a few months, now. This wasn’t what he’d had in mind, but it will have to do. 

Glancing up, he takes a moment to appreciate the the Bentley has turned into a soft top, for the occasion. She’s the most reliable thing in his life, he thinks, steering her on, down the road’s steep decline. It’s why he’s brought her. Another source of comfort. He wants heat, and his car, and a bit of glitz and glamour. He wants to submerge himself in a fantasy and make mischief, until he can forget about what is going on, at home. 

The amount of magic it has taken, to get here, leaves his mortal body feeling ravaged. It is unsafe to channel so much, regularly - a human-shaped form can burn up, with too much energy - but he will survive it once. And it is worth it, Crowley thinks. It is worth it, to be able to breathe again. 

He steers the car on, catching glimpses of sea between craggy hills. The tight feeling in his throat is beginning to fade - the change in scenery blunting the edge of his panic. This is better, he thinks. This is good. He likes heat. He likes rolling terrain and switchback roads. He likes going fast through stone tunnels through the mountainside, hearing the engine grumble and roar. He likes feeling the burning sun on the side of his neck and drinking in the distant smell of salt. He can smell lavender on the breeze. He likes that, too. Yes, this is better. Much better.

Going fast has always soothed him. There’s a false security in movement. Crowley knows that driving won't fix his situation but it gives him cover for the fact that he doesn’t know what else to do. That he’s come to the end of his usable knowledge on how to be a better friend, on how to be less of a demon. 

Crowley grits his teeth as the echoes of last night burn through his memory. Sweet desert wine on his tongue. The smell of leather and dust, from the bookshop. The distant warmth of a radiator. That high, tight voice Aziraphale uses, when he thinks he is beyond reproach. 

They’d been arguing about Crowley’s latest project. A project he had brought before the angel feeling stupidly optimistic, thinking it might give them the opportunity to carve out a little place for themselves on this planet. Freelance work, he’d told his friend, with a proud little grin. Not good or evil, just something to push humanity with - to stimulate a bit of change, in the places that needed it. He’d been convinced it was a good idea but, the moment he’d brought it up, Aziraphale’s face fell.

They’d argued. The angel had called him short-sighted and naive. Crowley had snapped back that he was only being realistic - that he had to do something to show Heaven and Hell they still had a stake in this world. They had skills, to negotiate with. They should use them!

“Oh, am I working on this project, too?” The angel had scoffed, raising his eyebrows in a supercilious way that had always set Crowley’s teeth on edge. “How thoughtful of you to let me know.” 

“I didn’t say that.” 

“Well, that’s what they’ll all assume, won’t they? They’ll assume this is some sort of statement of intention - our chosen moral direction.” 

“No, this is my thing.” Crowley had stressed. “I’ve made that abundantly clear.” 

“But they’ll assume that I’m involved.” 

“Oh, Heaven forbid, Aziraphale…” And hurt had begun to burn, deep in the pit of his stomach. “Nobody is going to assume you’re involved, alright? I specifically said this was a solo project. You’re in the clear. Not linked to me at all. That’s what you want, isn’t it?” 

Aziraphale had stared at him, eyes wide. 

And Crowley had finally reached the end of whatever thin strand of patience he had been clinging to. He had stood, draining the rest of his glass. 

“It’s late. I’ve got to go.” 

And that had been bad enough. They never argued about anything that mattered. They bickered all the time, but it was only ever about nonsense. It was never anything personal - but this was personal. This argument ranked right up there with the big ones; the squabble about the introduction of iron-forged weapons, the guest list for Noah’s ark, the pointlessness of sending a prophet to Earth only to off him thirty-three years later. 

Crowley had been all set to go home and bitch at his plants for a couple of hours, then have a good, long sulk. That said, he would have got over it. He would have napped for a while, and denied the angel his company, but he would eventually have gone back. They would have made up and continued as they were. 

But that, as it turned out, wasn’t the end of it. 

As Crowley was halfway across the room, pulling on his jacket, Aziraphale’s voice had cut through the air. 

“You’re really going to do it, then? You’re really going to go back to them, after all we’ve been through?”

Crowley had faltered. Aziraphale had sounded so broken, so hurt. And the demon was not squeamish about many things, but something always twisted inside him, to hear the angel hurt. 

Turning, he had looked back at his friend, hands shoved into his too-small pockets. 

“I'm not ‘going back’, Aziraphale.” He had tried to keep the tone neutral. “That’s what i’m trying to tell you. I’m moving forwards, on my own terms.”

“But with _Hell_?”

“Hell… Heaven…. whoever wants to enlist my services. I made overtures to both, Hell were just the only ones to reply.” He had shrugged. “I’m good at what I do. And if what I do can work to Hell’s benefit, then it makes sense to capitalise on that - use it to establish some boundaries. Give me something to negotiate with.”

“Do you not think it’s a slippery slope?”

“They don’t own me any longer. What I do now, I choose to do.”

“Oh, and you think that gives you the moral high ground, do you?” And his friend’s voice had turned sharp, then - dangerously strained and thin. “You think that makes it somehow less demonic?”

Crowley’s stomach had clenched.

“I don’t need to be less demonic,” he’d hissed, low, and threatening - really, really hoping that he’d misread where this was going. “Because I am a demon.”

“Oh, hardly,” Aziraphale had scoffed. 

“What?”

“I said you’re hardly a demon, Crowley. You were hardly one to start with.” 

“I beg your fucking pardon?”

“The things they made you do. They were horrible, but that wasn’t you.”

And something in Crowley had split. Because of course it was about that. It was always about that. When had there ever been a moment where Aziraphale let him forget that they were different - that they were only allowed to be friends because of the angel’s beneficence?

And Crowley’s head had filled to the brim with the echoes of past sleights, rolling them together until he couldn’t hear anything else.

“Oh, you know what, Aziraphale, fuck off!” He’d spat, suddenly totally, impossibly furious. His heart had pounded in his ears. He’d felt sick, sweaty. “For the first time in six thousand years, this isn’t all about you!”

“About me? I don’t possibly know what you-,”

“You do this - you always do this!”

“Do what?”

“Try to make me into something palatable. Something you can want and not feel guilty about.”

“Wh-,” The angel’s cheeks had flushed at the word ‘want’. “Oh, really…”

“I don’t match up with how you see yourself, and that really fucks with you, doesn’t it?” 

“I have no idea what you-,” 

“Because you always have to be the good guy, don’t you? You always have to be in the right.” 

“Crowley, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” He’d thrown his arms out. “Is that what I am? Is that what this is?”

“I have no idea what ‘this’ is.”

“Oh, fuck _off_!” And Crowley had snarled, voice breaking breaking with frustration. “Fuck off! You know how I feel. I’ve been screaming it at you for years - for centuries!” All reason had fled, restraint along with it. “I’ve said it in every way I know. I’ve gone slow. I’ve gone fast. I’ve been there when you needed me and I’ve buggered off when you didn’t. I’ve been c-careful. I’ve been patient. But you haven’t given an inch. You haven’t budged!” He gasped in a breath. “And, now, the world hasn’t ended and I thought things might be different, but it isn't. And you know what? That would be f-fine. That would be okay, if I thought, for an _instant_ , that that was all you wanted. You’re my best friend and I want you to be happy, but it’s not all you want, is it? You want more. I know you do. And you won’t… you just won’t…” he draws a shaking breath in. “I don’t know what else to do.”

It was more than he’d said, about the matter, in six thousand years. Crowley was not a demon given to monologues, or exposition, or even to waxing lyrical about the Bentley. This eclipsed any emotional outburst he’d ever had. His words had been rough and grotesquely inadequate, but there had been a painful relief in having them out there. 

He had stood, panting slightly, in the aftermath. And Aziraphale had sat, staring at him, lips slightly parted. They had both held their silence for a full ten seconds - an exercise in dying, slowly. Then, the angel had looked down and away. 

“You should go.”

Crowley had flinched. 

Right. There it was. Confirmation. 

His throat had tightened, a hollow feeling spreading out from his stomach. He had known he was about to cry, but he would be damned twice if he was going to do it in front of his friend - his friend who was still staring decidedly away. Motionless and detached. 

“Fine.” He’d spat instead, turning away. “Fine, forget it. I’ll see you in a few years, or something…” He had staggered towards the door. “We can pretend this never happened. We’re good at pretending.”

And Aziraphale hadn’t looked up, hadn’t said a word. So, Crowley had fled. 

He’d fled home and sat for a very long time, with his head in his hands. He’d drank more than he should, from his spirits collection, and thrown a mug of tea against the wall for it daring to remind him of a mug of cocoa. He’d cried a lot.

Then, his phone had rung through to answerphone and he’d hated himself - _hated_ himself - for hoping it would be Aziraphale, but it had been a call from one of the investors he had been talking to, in regards to this freelance project. And Crowley had listened to the message as the sun came up, over the city skyline, and decided to go. Sod the angel, he had his own life.

So, he had thrown a couple of things into a bag. And he had thrown himself into the car. And he had snapped himself here. And now he was free, sort of. 

The wind rushes over him, sun stinging gently at his skin. His demonic skin, that he cannot change, even if he wanted to. 

And if that really is Aziraphale’s problem, he thinks, swallowing - if it really is a theological issue, something beyond the angel’s ten thousand other neuroses - then it is a barrier they’ll never get past. Because Crowley cannot change what he is. And he cannot change what they want. He would be happy to restrict their friendship to friendship, if that was all Aziraphale wanted, but he’s not happy to facilitate the cycles of self-hatred that they’ve been putting themselves through, these past few hundred years. Allowing themselves closer. Waiting until Aziraphale’s nerve breaks. Falling apart again. He cannot do that for the rest of eternity. He can’t change what he is and he shouldn’t feel like he has to. 

Breathing out, the demon roots around in his jacket pocket for one of the new tapes he’d brought along, from the flat. He selects one at random and shoves it into the cassette player. Something vaguely familiar starts playing back. Something unremarkable, that he doesn’t have to think about. Perfectly vague, Crowley thinks, appreciatively. The ideal backdrop for his roiling thoughts. 

His heart rate begins to fall. His fingertips stop shaking from the adrenaline of his flight - from the grotesque expenditure of magic. He drives a little faster. Feels a little better. Enjoys the rush in his stomach, from going over a bump too fast. 

.

The road takes him down into the city and instinct takes him through narrow streets, towards the wider avenues down by the marina. He finds the hotel and pulls up outside, telling the young bellboy that the Bentley is fine where it is, for the moment. (The human retreats to the doorway, leaving the car at the entrance, a little dazed but acquiescent). 

Inside, Crowley finds a suite he once stayed in - miraculously available - the decor changed, by time, but the view much the same out the window. Dropping his bags on the bed, he grabs a drink and heads out to the balcony, to breathe in the salt air, feeling his heart rate slow. 

He stands there for a long time, staring at the sea, over the nearby rooftops, thinking. Then, he turns back inside and sets about changing his clothes, before heading out in search of his target. He has work to do. 

. 


	2. Aziraphale

.

They have always followed one another. It is an inescapable part of their history. Most of the time, Crowley would be sent somewhere first, to wreak havoc, and Aziraphale would be sent after, to set it all to rights. Heaven never had any concept of the distances involved, so Aziraphale was usually given a non-specific destination, such as ‘Europe’, and sort of left to figure out the details for himself. 

Wherever they went, however, the angel had always been able to find his counterpart. He had always been able to feel Crowley. He could sense the magic that the demon left in his wake, like ripples in the surface of reality. When they got close enough, he could read the intricacies of his counterpart’s spells and taste the flavour of his emotional state, at the time of casting them. At a distance, however, all he gets is a subtle glimmer. 

That is what he feels, when the plane touches down on the tarmac of the small airport. He feels sun and warmth and sea - human joy, and aspirations, and excitement. And the faintest glimmer of something more. Something other. 

_Crowley._

Aziraphale’s eyes sweep the runway, sweep the surrounding scrubland, sweep cloudless cerulean skies, staring as if he expects to find the demon amongst them.  Overhead, a polite woman on the tannoy is informing them that they should keep their seatbelts on until the plane has come to a complete stop. The businessman, to Aziraphale’s left, is already fiddling with his seatbelt, but the angel is too preoccupied to point out the infraction. His mind is turning over itself with nerves. 

What will Crowley do, the angel wonders, if he does manage to track him down? The demon had fled the bookshop, five days ago, in a state of justifiable rage - and Aziraphale still does not know whether his friend had intended him to follow. He thinks he did. When he had finally overcome his emotional reaction, the angel had gone to the demon’s flat and found a note sitting on his kitchen counter. That felt like an intimation of need. But it might equally have been in case of emergencies, as stated. 

They are not good at this part, Aziraphale thinks. They’ve never been good at this part. They’ve never known quite what to do with themselves, in the aftermath of a row. They’ve always swept things under the rug, before, but Aziraphale suspects that that solution will not work, this time. 

They’ve gone too far, he thinks. They are past some point of no return. Things have been said that cannot be taken back. The way that Crowley had broken down and shouted that he’d been screaming how he felt at Aziraphale for years - it was more than the angel had ever heard from his friend. It was more honestly than they’ve ever allowed themselves. At least, when sober and not faced with the end of the world. 

A loud ‘clunk’ echoes through the cabin as the aircraft docks. The engines power down. Aziraphale sighs. 

He supposes Crowley would laugh himself stupid, to hear that he had flown out here on a human airplane. Aziraphale has to admit that he finds the idea a little preposterous, himself. He is, after all, a being who can transport himself across dimensions. He is a being with immense supernatural powers, celestial wings, and the ability to shift the very fabric of reality around him, and here he sits, strapped into what is essentially a large tin-can, allowing himself to be propelled across the stratosphere by a series of controlled explosions. It is not a sensible method of transport, the angel thinks. Worse than airships, really.

Nevertheless, it had been the only way of getting himself here, in the time frame required, that would not leave a magical trail - and Aziraphale knew he could not leave a trail. If Crowley was working a temptation for Hell, then his magic would implicate the demon. And if this is truly what Crowley wants… Well, Aziraphale will not stand in his way. But he has to apologise. He has to try. He cannot leave things as they are. 

Giving a long sigh, Aziraphale looks back around at his fellow passengers. The humans are all scrabbling around for their belongings, in the backs of seats and in overhead lockers. There is a palpable air of excitement about them. They are all here to see family and meet friends, to indulge in a few weeks of sun and sea. They are full of anticipation. 

Aziraphale cannot empathise. Dread is pulling at his stomach, quite at odds with the clear stretches of blue sky, outside.

He stands only once the rest of the cabin has emptied and makes his way through to the front of the plane, carrying a small bag in one hand. It is an old bag, the same duffel he once used to carry half a dozen books of prophecy to a church, in the middle of an air raid. Aziraphale hangs onto things. It is a terrible habit, he knows. It will inevitably lead to him having to watch said things grow threadbare and fall apart, and inevitably be taken from him, but he cannot help himself. He hangs on, regardless. 

He thanks the steward as he disembarks - watching them watch him. He wonders what they see. 

A middle aged businessman, perhaps. His French is far from flawless and he is not dressed like a local, so a foreigner, as well. Old money, if his first-class ticket and staid clothes are anything to go by. Perhaps fallen on hard times, by the weathered hem of his waistcoat. 

Some several hundred years ago, Aziraphale remembers a young woman telling him that he had sad eyes. They had been sitting in a small souk. He had been advising her on how to better arrange her family’s meagre assets, and she had smiled at him and thanked him, from beneath the veil of scarlet headscarf, and told him that he had sad eyes, but that she would pray for his worries to pass, like clouds. 

His worries had not passed, Aziraphale muses, as he makes his way down the airplane steps and off, across the tarmac. The clouds had only gathered and then there had been the great storm of ‘Armageddon’, which had loomed, for years. 

When ‘The End’ had failed and he had been - for all intents and purposes - freed, Aziraphale had expected the skies above his head to clear, but that had not happened. All of his fears had stayed on Earth with him, latched onto wings that he barely uses, clinging to the mortal shell of him. 

“Passport.”

The man behind the desk asks him for the document in English. 

Aziraphale wonders if that is part of what he looks like, too. He has been based in London for so long, now, that it would not surprise the angel. Barring the early years, in the Levant, it is probably the longest he has spent in one place. It is a home, now. He has grown rather attached. He is used to his life there - his little bookshop, and the park, and his favourite restaurants, and having Crowley living just a stone’s throw away. 

The thought causes something to constrict, harshly, in his stomach. Oh, he has been so stupid. He should never have said those things. He had wanted his friend closer, not further away, but he had panicked. And, oh… he had been so stupid… so stupid…

Aziraphale hands over the passport. The bored-looking man at the desk looks at it without comment, then allows him through to a cavernous atrium, where the voices of humans spill over one another in excitement. 

There are families all around, children hanging over and under barriers in hopes of catching an early glimpse of their relatives. A little girl holds a sign with ‘daddy’ on it, standing on her tip toes. An elderly woman peers eagerly into the little knot of passengers to Aziraphale’s left, her face splitting into a grin as a young man peels off from among them and bounds over to her, calling out in greeting. 

“Maman! Maman, tu m'as manqué!”

_Mother, I’ve missed you._

Angels do not have family like humans do, Aziraphale thinks. He can remember, vaguely, the early days of his existence - back before family was a concept. They had all belonged to one another, then, but it had been different. Aziraphale had not really been an individual. He and the other Principalities had been created with distinct purpose, but lack of distinction. The things he liked and the ways he acted were all things that had grown in him with time, with years spent on this strange planet, among these strange humans. 

And the more he had grown in himself, the less he had belonged in Heaven. And as he lived among the humans, he had realised that he could never truly belong to them, either. Their lives were too short. They were too transient and Heaven was too distant. So, Aziraphale had tried to bond with the other Principalities of Earth, but their duties kept them at different points around the Earth. Though he made acquaintances and friends, they were never close. In the end, the only family that lasted was Crowley. 

Crowley. His counterpart. His balance. The weight on the other end of the fulcrum. The force that ties him to this world. They do not work in isolation, Aziraphale thinks, as he walks through the narrow corridor of humans, towards the exit. He and Crowley have travelled through this world, together, for so long that he cannot imagine living without the demon. Not this life. Not as the person he is, now. 

History is full of their memories. The things Aziraphale loves about Earth are the things that they have shared. They had discovered this world together, really. They had grown up here, together. That there might be a future, where they lead separate lives, is beyond Aziraphale’s imagination. Perhaps not beyond Crowley’s, though. 

The angel closes his eyes, briefly. Swallows.

He is so afraid. 

.

Reaching the front of the airport, Aziraphale finds a driver idling by the curb, ‘Mr Fell’ printed on the small, neat sign in his window. He greets the man, slides into the back seat of the car, tells the human that he might need him to drive through the city, a few times, so he can get a feel for the place. The driver, clearly well versed in the oddities of his rich customers, nods but does not comment. 

The angel thinks about names as they head east, along the narrow roads of the coast. He thinks about his name. The name on the driver’s sign, the alias over the front of the bookshop, the word ‘Aziraphale' - all of them only a stand-in for the truth of him, really. Aziraphale is just a word, he thinks. It is just a sound, for identification. He is not ‘Aziraphale’ any more than he is English, or wealthy, or a man, or any of the things he pretends to be.

At the base of it, he realises, he doesn’t know what he is, anymore. The definitions he has clung to for so long do not fit, and he doesn’t know where that leaves him and Crowley. He doesn’t know if he can be what his friend needs. He wants more, but he does not know how to reach for it. He can feel divergence pulling at the spaces between them. He can feel a fork in the road ahead. 

Resting his head against the back of the seat, Aziraphale tightens his fingers around the handle of his travel bag, sighing as pale ground and scrub foliage slide past the windows.  The skies are wide and unblemished by clouds. The sea stretches out, to his right.  He can remember when he had first come to that sea, six thousand years ago. He can remember walking down to the edge of it, delirious with joy at the idea of water, after so long a walk through the desert. Kneeling down, he had scooped some up and brought it to his lips. Then he had flinched - the too-much taste of saltwater burning his tongue. 

Anger had risen up within him, to have so much water spread out before, yet be unable to drink. It had been almost like They were taunting him, he had thought. He had walked for so far, alongside these humans. He had done everything that was asked of him, and yet none of them could drink. And Aziraphale had questioned, for the first time.  Then, he had shrivelled with shame and withdrawn - shoved those thoughts down deep, where he could not examine them. He had moved on. Accepted. Continued to serve. 

He is not the same angel who had first walked that shore, Aziraphale thinks, staring into the blue as the car glides along the autoroute. He knows that. Still, he does not know how to be anyone else. He does not know how to change, or what comes next. He does not know what he is going to say to his friend, when he finds him in the city. He only knows that he cannot leave things as they are. He needs to fix this. Crowley is the only thing that he still believes in. 

Heaving a sigh, the angel watches the sea, as the car drives on.

. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me lurking on [IG](https://www.instagram.com/heycaricari/), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/heycaricari), and [Tumblr](https://heycaricari.tumblr.com/) @heycaricari


	3. Crowley

Sometime later that afternoon, in an opulent hotel in the north of the city, a hotel receptionist’s voice rings out and a demon’s attention is caught. 

“Monsieur Crowley!” The young man emerges from behind his desk and rushes over, clutching a slip of paper in hand. “My apologies. I was meant to give you this, upon your return.”

Crowley looks down. 

The paper appears thick, expensive, something brought in from outside the hotel, because he cannot see a letterhead. His name scrawled on the back, aligned perfectly with the centre of the page - and the recognition of the handwriting sends a twist through his abdomen. 

_Aziraphale._

The angel was in town, then. He had not been wrong. 

Crowley had felt a shift in the ambience of the city at about ten o’ clock, that morning - an expanding of the air, to allow for more magic. It had been a shock to the system. Despite having left a note in his flat, explaining roughly where he’d be, the demon had not expected Aziraphale to follow. They don’t do that. Not unless it has something to do with work. 

Eyeing the paper in the reception human’s hands, Crowley deliberates for a good ten seconds over taking it. It has sparked a strange mix of longing and anger in his gut. He hates that just the thought of Aziraphale is enough to do that - to send his heartbeat racing and his skin prickling. At least it’s hot, this afternoon, he thinks. He will be able to explain the flush away on the weather. 

“What is it?” The young woman at his elbow asks. 

“Just a message from an old friend.” Glancing up at her, Crowley lets out a long sigh, then turns back to the receptionist. “Ta.” Taking the folded paper in hand, he opens it, finding a short message message scribbled inside. 

_‘In the bar. Need to speak to you. A.’_

Crowley glances back up. 

“Is he still here?”

The young receptionist nods. 

“On the veranda, sir. Would you like me to pass a message on, or-,”

“No need.” 

Crowley doesn’t want to give the angel his room number. He doesn’t want to relay a message or announce his imminent arrival. As things are, he has only one advantage in the exchange that is to come, and that is that he controls when it begins. 

As the receptionist scurries back towards his desk, the demon looks back over at his young charge. The human raises an eyebrow. 

“Is who still here?” 

“Just an old friend,” Crowley repeats. “Meet you upstairs, in twenty?”

They are halfway through a conversation which he will need to finish, at some point - to perpetuate the rest of his temptation - but that can wait. He won’t be able to concentrate until this is done, anyway. 

_He hates that he won’t be able to concentrate until this is done._

“Okay…” the young human at his side regards him warily, eyes flicking towards the doors that lead to the bar, and the veranda, and Crowley’s mystery friend. “Are you sure you don’t want company?”

“S’fine. Just a business thing.”

She doesn’t look convinced. 

“Well, remember that we have dinner planned. Matthieu is sending a car to pick us up. He wants us there by-,”

“Seven. I remember.” Crowley nods to the human, motions for her to head on, up the stairs. “Go on. Head up and change. I’ll see you and Jacob in a bit.” 

“Okay.”

The young woman leans in to kiss his cheek, then takes her leave. The demon takes a moment to regulate his breaths and then walks the other way, towards the bar.

Trepidation pulls at him, as he begins to draw near. He is not sure what to do with his hands. Pausing in the hallway, just before the gilded doors, he takes a moment to gather himself, arranging his hair in a mirror. 

It is a self-conscious movement. Crowley knows that there should be no meaning behind how his hair looks. This body is only a physical vessel, after all. It only ‘him’ by dint of him being inside of it for so long. How it looks should certainly not really speak to his mental or emotional state. But it does, somehow, Crowley thinks. It does, for both of them. 

He does not know when it had become a thing - when their actions on a physical, earthly plane, had begun to speak for the inner workings of their souls - but it had been a long time ago. Now, his and Aziraphale’s bodies are part of them. Their actions have meaning. The way they sense things matters. When they find something humorous, they laugh. When their bodies are in pain, they cry. When they are nervous, their heartbeats race and sweat beads across their skin.

It’s beading in between Crowley’s shoulder blades, now. He feels the fabric clinging and presses into his powers to suppress the reaction. He wonders if Aziraphale is still dressed like he had been, in London, buttoned right up to the chin. He’ll look out of place, the demon thinks, staring into the endless reflections of the mirror his glasses in the mirror - but then Aziraphale always looks a little out of place. There’s this feeling of something ‘more’ about the angel. A bleeding of his celestial soul into the physical plane. It is why people are drawn to him. 

It is why Crowley is drawn to him. 

_Oh, fucking Hell…_

Okay. Right.

Throwing his shoulders back, the demon turns and pushes his way through the doors.

The scene inside the bar is all lazy afternoon. A single member of staff is tending - wiping down glasses in preparation for the dinner rush. A few humans sit, scattered about the place. A couple at the far end, are wrapping their ankles around one another’s, under the table. A businessman sits, in the nearest corner, scribbling on a notepad with a phone pressed against his ear. 

Crowley scans the room for Aziraphale and finds him seated on the patio area, through open double doors. He’s got his back towards Crowley and his face towards the sun. As expected, he is wearing a jacket, despite the heat of the afternoon.

Motioning to the barkeep that he will not need service, the demon heads towards the angel. He keeps his chin up, his stride long and even. He knows he is not going to be able to pull of nonchalant - not when his thoughts are spinning like they are - but he might just about manage a facade of control. 

He arrives at Aziraphale’s side just as the angel is lowering a glass from his lips. He’s drinking something ridiculous and pink, through a straw - something with crushed ice and mint leaves, and topped with a stupid colourful umbrella. It is very Aziraphale. The sight spikes love and irritation through Crowley, in equal measure.

“Aziraphale,” He calls the angel’s name as he draws level, trying to keep it flat, neutral.

Aziraphale jumps slightly, head jerking around. 

“Oh! Crowley.” 

“In the flesh.”

“Hello.”

“Hi.”

They stare at one another. 

“What do you want?” Crowley asks, tersely. He doesn’t finish the question with ‘angel’. He can tell that Aziraphale is waiting to hear the pet name - waiting for a sign that things are okay, between them - and he doesn't want to give him the satisfaction. “What are you doing, here?” He asks, instead. “Is this some kind of intervention?” 

Aziraphale swallows and gives a taut smile. A fake one. 

“Oh, no. Nothing like that.” 

“What do you want, then?” 

Their last conversation is echoing, in Crowley’s ears. Despite having ached to see the angel for each one of the last five days, he suddenly wishes that Aziraphale had just called, rather than turned up like this. He feels unprepared and dizzy because of it.

Beside him, Aziraphale fiddles with the stem of his glass, for a moment, and then stands from his seat. Brushing his jacket free of creases, he takes a step forwards, closing the distance between himself and the demon. 

Crowley tries his best not to back away. 

“I’ve been wanting to apologise,” Aziraphale begins, stiffly. “What I said to you, back at the bookshop, was entirely out of line.” 

Crowley bristles. 

It was more than that.

“Not much point in apologising,” he snips. “Apologies don’t change anything. At the end of the day, I’ll still be a demon.” 

Aziraphale’s lips tighten. 

“I should never have said what I said to you, Crowley. I should never have tried to make you feel less than you are.” 

“Yeah, well… point still stands,” The demon curls a lip, trying to ignore the torn sincerity in his friend’s voice. “If you have a problem with what I am, now, then you’re going to have it forever. So, why bother? Might as well accept it and move on.” He pulls a face. “We had a good run, but I’m sure you’ll find someone else to drink with, soon enough. There must be plenty of idiots out there who would listen to you ramble on, about ink and bindings, in exchange for a glass of wine.”

“Crowley…”

Aziraphale stares up at him, pain evident in his green-blue eyes. 

The demon swallows. It had always turned his stomach, to see Aziraphale in pain. Watching his friend, he can feel his resolve weakening. He can feel urge to brush it all aside. Say - ‘ _Oh, for Satan’s sake, angel. Forget about it. It’s fine,_ ’ - and change the subject. Instead, he manages to turn away and paces over, to the edge of the balcony. After thirty seconds, Aziraphale joins him, taking up position at his right elbow.

“You are right,” the angel says, softly, after few moments have passed. “You are absolutely right, my dear boy.”

“About what?” 

Crowley’s tone remains sharp but the anger he has been seething in, for days, is beginning to blunt. There has always been something soothing, about being near Aziraphale. It is as if the angel's magic calms the chaos in his own veins. Like they are two oceans mixing, finding equilibrium. They have this strange existential balance, Crowley thinks, hating the romanticism of the thought - a completion, of sorts. 

“I owe you more than just an apology,” Aziraphale says, softly. “I owe you an explanation. I would understand, however, if you did not want to hear from me, right now. If you would rather I leave, I shall.”

A silence hangs between them. 

Crowley gnaws at the inside of his cheek.

“Would you rather I leave?” The angel prompts, eventually.

“I'd rather you told me what the Heaven you want from me,” the demon mutters back. “And I’d like you to be honest about it, for a fucking change.”

Aziraphale looks quickly down, running his hands over the edge of the railing, as if trying to smooth the metal flat. It’s a nervous tic - one of the ten thousand that Crowley knows as well as he knows his own skin. 

He knows Aziraphale so well, he thinks, glancing sideways at the familiar profile of the angel’s upturned nose. He know that when his friend folds his hands behind his back, he’s trying to restrain himself. He knows that when he twists his fingers together, it is due to some internal turmoil. He knows every one of the angel’s micro expressions. He knows every one of the lines, that mark out the corners of his eyes. He knows Aziraphale so well and he is so infernally angry with him.

He is so infernally in love with him, too. It’s funny how it’s not all a contradiction.

At Crowley’s side, the angel presses his lips together, still fiddling with the railing. 

“I am finding a lot of things very difficult, right now,” he murmurs, eventually. There is a gap after the words, but Crowley does not rush to fill it. He waits, instead, and his friend eventually goes on. “I think… I am struggling with the lack of direction. Before, my path was very much written for me. I always knew what my future held. And, now, everything has changed and I’m not sure where I fit into it. You are the only constant, Crowley. So, I suppose, I panicked when you said you’d be working with Hell, again. I think I took it as some sort of betrayal of ‘our side’.”

Crowley pulls a face.

“I literally said that it wasn’t.”

“I know…”

“I don’t know how I could have been any more clear.”

“I know, Crowley,” the angel stresses, “but I was not listening. I was afraid, and I reacted poorly.” His pale eyes are over-bright as they lift to Crowley’s face. “I should have trusted you. I should never have thrown you out for challenging me. It was horrid.”

“Yeah, you were a right piece of work…”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Crowley lets out a low groan, frustration rising up within him, once more. They are still dancing around the truth of this. They are rehashing apologies when what he really wants is clarity.

“I know you’re sorry, Aziraphale,” he growls. “You’re always bleeding sssorry. It’s your modus operandi… You panic and you ssay things. Then, you apologise, and I cave and absolve you of your guilt. It happens every time! I’m the activated charcoal to every bit of toxic shite that comes out your mouth, mate, and I’m a bit over it, to be perfectly honest…”

Aziraphale closes his eyes, rubbing a hand over a furrowed brow.

“I know.”

“You can’t be afraid of me betraying ‘our side’ and, at the same time, tell me that you don’t know what ‘this’ is - it's not fair!” 

The angel goes still, hand over his eyes. Crowley suspects he might have actually stopped breathing. He holds the pose for a full ten seconds, then lets out a long, slow sigh. 

“Dear boy, I can’t imagine what all of this has been like, from your end.”

“It’s been shit, is what it is!”

“I’m so very, very sor-,”

“Oh, give over!” The demon folds his arms around himself and leans into the railing, glaring off in the opposite direction. He tries to recall any one of the dozen clever retorts he’d thought up, over the last week, while driving or in the shower. Sadly, none of them come to his aid. “You’re such an ass.” He mutters at the angel, instead. 

“I know…” 

“You’re unreasonable.”

“I am.” 

“And repressed.”

“Very much so.”

“And dramatic. And contradictory. And you always take your crap out on me!” 

Beside him, Aziraphale’s hand squeezes down, over his face, then drops back to grip the railing. He wraps his fingers around the edge of it, swallows, and then opens his mouth - but only to close it again.

“What?” the demon hisses, after a couple of repetitions of this, with no resultant speech. “Just spit it out.”

Aziraphale throws a reproachful glance up in his direction. 

“You’re not the most demonstrative person, either, Crowley.”

The demon’s eyebrows shoot up, over his glasses. 

“Oh - so, this is all my fault, is it?” 

“No, of course it isn’t. That’s not what I meant, at all, I just…” Aziraphale tightens his lips, flicks his eyes to the sky and then back over. “I am just trying to explain that this is a combination of things, on my end. I am struggling with the new order in our world. And, well… I’m not very brave, to start out with. Or very forward. I need time, to sort things out inside my own head. And, if you add that to your proclivity to run off when something goes wrong-,” 

“Stop trying to blame this all on me!” 

“I’m not blaming anything on you, Crowley, I'm just trying to explain why it took me so long, to apologise, this week! It could not have been more than twenty minutes, after you’d left, that I calmed down and thought things through properly. I regretted what I’d said almost immediately. I just didn’t know what to do about it.” Aziraphale lifts nervous eyes onto him. “Crowley, I’m never sure if you want me to chase you or just leave you to it.” 

“Oh, come off it…” 

“I never know.”

“As if it’s ever a choice,” the demon snaps. “You have _never_ come after me, Aziraphale. Not once.”

“Yes, well, I mean to change that,” the angel replies, very quietly. “In the future. If you’ll allow me.” 

Crowley blinks and looks around. His stomach performs a strange little twisting motion that threatens to relieve him of his lunchtime mimosa.

“You what?” 

Aziraphale looks down, performing a fussy little movement where he presses both of his palms against the railing, smoothing it. 

“I mean to chase you,” he clarifies. “If you’ll allow me.” 

The demon blinks. 

“You… Chase me?” 

“Yes.” Aziraphale is still looking down at his fingertips. He presses his lips into a very thin line, then swallows and adds, after a brief pause, “I know I’ve been awful, Crowley. I know that I’ve been frustrating and confusing, but I am working on it. I… I am trying to rectify it all, in my mind, and I need a little more time - and I know that is a silly thing to ask for. I’ve had more time than any one has a right to. I know it is cruel of me to even ask, but...” he raises his eyes up to look out, over the sea, casting just the briefest of glances at Crowley on the way. “Do you think you could wait for me just a little longer?” 

Crowley stares. 

He’s not sure where to begin - what to address first. ‘I mean to change that’ is the same sort of half-truth that Aziraphale has always used, to protect the emotions closest to him, but it is not nearly as ambiguous as the others have been. There are only so many ways to interpret ‘I mean to chase you’ and ‘will you wait for me’ - and even fewer ways, within the context of this conversation. 

And that leaves Crowley in a conundrum. The demon had come here to set a hard ultimatum. He had intended to stand before Aziraphale and tell him, in no uncertain terms, that he was not interested in waiting around - that he wanted to know where they stood. And, now… Now, he can feel his resolve slithering away. Because it’s Aziraphale. It’s his best friend, throwing covert glances at him, in the aftermath of reaching out. And yes, this was a reach. It might be no more than a twitch of the fingertips, for most people, but, for the angel, it is a reach.

Having stood on the other side of the void for so long, hand outstretched, Crowley cannot help but feel hope rise within him. 

“I don’t know…” he answers the angel, eventually. “I just… What would be the point? Nothing’s going to change.”

“I think that’s the bit I need to get my head around,” Aziraphale admits, finally looking around to meet his eyes, properly. “That it doesn’t need to.”

Crowley exhales, slowly. His arms come away from where they’ve been clenched around himself - around his demonic skin that maybe, just maybe, Aziraphale might want to chase, one day, even if he runs when things get difficult. 

God, he’s an idiot, he thinks. This is such a small sliver of hope. It’s such a foolish thing to seize on, but Crowley is a creature built for meagre things. He can see in near darkness, can survive off air and good wine. A touch on the arm, or the shoulder, has sustained him for years, in the past. This promise is more. Much more. 

“Angel, I’m going to need you to be…” he winkles his nose, looking back out to the harbour, to the sandy rocks and turquoise waters between them. “A lot more explicit about what you actually want from me.”

“I know and I will be, I just need to work some things out, first. Can you give me a few days?”

_Days._

Crowley blinks again. His timelines work in years, in decades. The idea of mere days tightens the base of his spine. 

“Yeah,” he breathes out. “Yeah, I can give you a few days.”

“Thank you.”

A long moment passes, watching one another. Crowley feels relief, excitement, frustration. 

“I do need to know, though,” he forces himself to clarify. 

“I appreciate that.”

“And I’m still pissed at you.” 

“I appreciate that, too.” 

“Right…” 

Aziraphale is still watching him, watercolour eyes a little too bright. 

“Dear boy, I know that one conversation will not solve everything, or even ten conversations. I understand that we’ll need to talk details and practicalities. I intend to be a lot more clear with you. I just need to sort one or two things out, for myself, first.” He pauses, then fiddles with the railing for a moment. “Are you… planning on returning to London?” 

Crowley rolls his eyes. 

“Of course I’m coming back. I always come back. You know that.” Suddenly, reading the lines on his friend’s brow, he’s not sure that Aziraphale did know that - that he has ever known that. “I always come back,” the demon repeats, thrown by the realisation. Slightly touched by the relief on the angel’s face. 

Aziraphale looks down, nods.

The brightness in his eyes has suddenly given way to a welling of tears. One of them breaks over a lid and slides down his cheek as Crowley watches, and the demon feels his hand twitch, reflexively.

He wants to touch, but he doesn’t know how - because they’ve never done that sort of thing, before. They do not comfort. It was always too close to other things. 

“You okay?” He asks, throat dry. 

“Yes, just…” his friend gives a shaky sigh, waves a hand vaguely. “Feeling very foolish.” 

“Well, we’re both a bit of that, aren’t we?” Crowley tries to soften the moment as the angel wipes a tear away. “Pair of fools, really.”

“It would be rather nice, I think, to be a pair of something.”

Crowley’s hand twitches again. Then, suddenly, he’s reaching out.

“Hey…”

He still does not know what to do, but that is okay, as his body seems to be doing it for him. His hand finds Aziraphale’s back, fingertips brushing shoulder blades - the angel giving a little movement of surprise, before relaxing into the touch.

Cautiously, heartbeat thrilling, Crowley lets the rest of his hand follow. Fingers, then a palm - resting, then pressing gently.

Aziraphale draws a very shaky breath in . 

“It's okay,” the angel’s blue-green eyes close as another few tears slide out. “I’m okay. No need to fuss.”

“M’not fussing,” Crowley grumbles. He doesn’t remove his hand, though, just presses a thumb into the column of his friend’s spine and feels the solidness of Aziraphale pressing back. “Demons don’t fuss.”

“You fuss,” the angel replies, giving the tiniest of smiles behind his tears. “Just occasionally.” 

They stand like that for a very comforting half minute. Then, giving another little sniff, Aziraphale turns his head, opening bright eyes back up at Crowley. 

“Do you think that you could tell me more about your project, please?” 

The demon feels his eyebrows slide up.

He hadn’t seen that one coming. 

“Do you really want to know?” He asks, blinking. “Or are you just asking to be polite?” 

_Because my hand is still resting on your back, Aziraphale, and your promises are resting in the air between us - and I need to know how much honesty you want. I need to know how much of me you can deal with. I need to know if this is real, or if you are going to turn me away, again, when things get difficult._

“If this is important to you,” the angel begins, slowly, “then I want to know.”

“Right.” Crowley swallows. Nods. “Right. Okay… Cool.” There is more than the usual amount of hiss in his consonants, but Aziraphale does not comment. “Well, uh… it’s a greed job, really.” Crowley eventually manages, over a heartbeat that feels like it is trying to crawl up his throat. He feels dizzy and still very aware of the warmth of his friend against the palm of his hand. It’s new. It’s wonderful. “Hell have, uh… a target and they’re interested in driving him to ruin.” He wrinkles his nose. “Typical situation, but I realised there was a bit of potential in the spaces around it.” 

“Yes?” Aziraphale wipes a tear. 

Crowley licks his lip. This is so odd. 

“Yeah. Well, the target had a brother, see, who died recently,” he explains. “That brother had two kids - a son and a daughter - who are due to inherit the estate. The siblings are estranged but they both hold controlling interests in their late father’s company. They need to decide whether to sell them to the target - their uncle - or dissolve the company entirely. The latter outcome would change a lot of things for a lot of people. Not in a good or evil way. Just... change, you know?” Crowley shrugs. “If I pull this off, Hell’s target loses a lot of influence and power, which will no doubt instigate the personal ruin that Hell are hoping for. Meanwhile, I get to shift the world around a bit. Everybody wins.”

“What do you get out of it?”

“Just something to do, really.” Crowley runs his tongue nervously over the tip of a canine tooth. He feels a bit uncomfortable, talking about this. It is a bit too close to the bone, but he had asked for honesty from Aziraphale, so he really should give it, in return. “I guess… taking a stagnant situation and giving it a kick, watching humans build from it, appeals to me… always has appealed to me.”

Aziraphale is watching him with a deeply fond expression. 

Crowley feels a tight spasm of awkwardness and drops his hand from his friend’s back, sliding it forwards to hang over the railing, instead.

“You should hang around,” he offers, heart in his throat, “see how it pans out.” 

The angel gives a sniff and wipes at his cheeks. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to be in the way…”

“You wouldn’t,” Crowley assures.

There is a silence.

The demon expects his friend to make a polite refusal - some statement about the bookshop, perhaps, or needing time to think this all over. But, to Crowley’s surprise, Aziraphale gathers himself with another long breath and murmurs, instead;

“Okay.” 

The demon’s head swings around. 

“Really?” 

“Yes.” Aziraphale smiles, shy. “It might be nice, to have a few days away, and it is so very beautiful, here.” He looks around, at the rest of the bar and the hotel he seemed not to have noticed, before. “I suppose I’ll have to find a room.” 

“Miracle one up,” Crowley blurts, stunned and thrilled, and suddenly potently nervous about the reality of the situation. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to draw attention.” 

“Don’t have to worry about that. S’not as if Hell don’t already know we talk.” The demon shrugs. “I’m, uh… staying on the top floor, a few doors down from the humans.” He’s sweating, suddenly. Nobody in the history of the world has ever been so nervous. His throat clenches, as he swallows. “You could always… miracle another room next to mine? That way I can keep you updated on things. We could grab breakfast tomorrow, before I head out, if you liked?”

“That would be nice.” Aziraphale’s eyes wash over him. “Where are you going, tomorrow?”

“Oh, just some ridiculous boat.” Crowley can barely breathe, with relief. This is actually happening. “I, uh…” the demon waves a hand, clears his throat. “Plan, is… uh… going to try and get the siblings to talk. See that they have a lot in common. Hopefully, everyone’s going to get on. And then they’ll head up into the hills, the day after, to scatter their father’s ashes at his favourite spot. It’s a memorial thing. Hopefully, the emotions will be high enough to manipulate some choices.” 

“And who are you, in all this, the driver?” 

“Nah - old family friend. The backstory is, I went to school with the brother, Matthieu.”

“However did you manage that?” Aziraphale sounds impressed. 

“Yearbook photo manipulation. Then a phone call, a few days ago. Couple of well-placed memories and the thing was in the bag. It's not that difficult, really. Nobody remembers half of what they got up to at university. It wasn't a hard sell,” he shrugs. “I’m good at what I do, angel.”

“I know you are, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, softly. 

His eyes do a guilty little flick, down, and Crowley notes that it is too soon, to tease him about it all. He won’t make any comments on being ‘hardly a demon’, then - though he will reiterate the offer of breakfast.

“Well, should I call by tomorrow? This place does a nice Bellini and peach waffles thing. Right up your street.” 

“Yes. That sounds charming.”

“Mm…” Crowley dithers for a moment, then reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a pen. Wandering over to a nearby table, he scribbles his room number down on the back of a napkin, and then hands it over to the angel. “Here.”

“Thank you.” 

Aziraphale’s words are quiet, his expression mild, but Crowley can feel the vastness of the emotion surging through him in the moment their fingers brush. It sends a sensation like electricity right down the front of his thighs. A brief awareness of one another - beyond the corporations they currently inhabit. It feels like closeness.

The angel takes the napkin and folds it carefully into his jacket pocket. As if it were something special. Important. Valuable. 

“Right.” Crowley swallows. He doesn’t want to say goodbye, but he has dinner to attend and a temptation to lace through it. And he needs to give his friend some space, to think. Aziraphale needs space, to think. Forcing himself to take a step back, the demon clears his throat. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“See you tomorrow, Crowley.” 

He stands for a moment too long before striding off, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets to have something to do with them. He glances back one too many times, but the fact that Aziraphale notices is softened by the fact that the angel is watching him too, each time. 

It is not the outcome he had expected, Crowley thinks, as he dazedly makes his way back through the slowly-filling bar, past a barman who eyes him curiously, (having witnessed the whole interaction). None of this is how he expected it to play out. He should be cautious, he reminds himself. This is still a long way, from where he wants it to be. He’s not one hundred percept sure that he and Aziraphale are on the same page, yet - but it feels as if they are in the same book now, at least, and Crowley cannot help but hope. 

He is strung together by hope, he thinks, making his way back through the lobby and back up, in the elevator, to the top floor. Hope is what has sustained him for the past however-many thousand years. Hope will sustain him another few days, he thinks, unlocking his hotel room and throwing himself face-down on the bed inside. Hope will keep him a little longer. 

He takes a long few minutes just breathing in the memory of his hand against Aziraphale’s back, before rolling over and getting up, to change for dinner. A smile plays around his lips. Aziraphale’s soft promise plays through his ears. And, if he concentrates hard enough, he can still feel the angel’s warmth in his fingertips. 

Yes. Hope will keep him a little longer. 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thank you to everyone who is reading! Next chapter should be up on Saturday. :)
> 
> Find me lurking on [IG](https://www.instagram.com/heycaricari/), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/heycaricari), and [Tumblr](https://heycaricari.tumblr.com/) @heycaricari


	4. Aziraphale

.

Aziraphale woke up the next morning having slept.

This, in itself, was unusual, as he was not an angel particularly given to sleep. It was not as though he had anything against the practice. It had just always seemed a bit of a waste of time, for a creature who had no real need of it. There had always been something else that Aziraphale could have better spent his time doing - some robe that needed darning, or some book that needed translating. It was always too easy to get lost in a task and find the sun rising again, on the opposite horizon.

There was a voice at the back of his mind, too, which sounded a bit like Gabriel and liked to recount some of the comments made during Aziraphale’s first spot inspection.

“ _Evil does not sleep_ ,” the archangel had sneered, as he paced around Aziraphale’s modestabode, some time in the early second century. “ _Do you want be remiss in protecting Her chosen people? Would you allow Her plan to fall by the wayside, in exchange for a weak facsimile of true pleasure? You’re going to have to buck up.”_

Though Aziraphale had learned, over the years, that Gabriel was not entirely correct in his assumptions - (Evil, in fact, loved to sleep. It slept almost every night and, occasionally, napped for centuries at a time) - the idea that sleeping might go against Heaven’s orders had stuck. The angel had disposed of his sleeping mat that very morning and resolved himself to be more vigilant. Sleep had become an indulgence he only allowed himself on rare occasions. When he was feeling particularly washed out, or especially lonely.

At present, Aziraphale had not slept for nearly a year. Indeed, the last time he had closed his eyes, for any length of time, had been the night after his trial, when he had returned to the bookshop in his newly inhabited body and collapsed into bed out of sheer exhaustion.

Last night had been something similar.

The meeting with Crowley, on the hotel veranda, had left him feeling emotionally drained and a little dazed. Lost in the events of his own life, Aziraphale had walked the city with no direction in mind for several hours, taking in the sights and smells, admiring what had changed since his last visit, over a hundred years before.

As evening had drawn in, he found a small Spanish restaurant and worked his way through most of the menu while sipping his wine and staring out over the familiar blue of the Mediterranean. The alcohol served to slow the pace of his thoughts, until they began to take the shape of questions. Questions that he needed to ask of himself. Questions that he needed to ask of Crowley, to know what the demon wanted from him, in return.

As the sky overhead grew darker, Aziraphale had ruminated over what had been said, back at the bookshop, and also during their softer conversation on the veranda, that morning. He had ruminated over the way Crowley had said ‘you never come after me’ and ‘I can give you a few days’ - and on the sensation of his friend’s warm fingers, against his back.

Touch was something new, between the pair of them. They had only ever touched, before, with the plausible deniability of societal expectations, or out of necessity. They had never touched for comfort, or for pleasure. This was a blurring of the line, between what they were and what they wanted to be.

Aziraphale had sat and thought until a polite young server had come over, to tell him that the restaurant was closing. Then, making sure to tip generously, he had made his way back out into the streets and headed through the city, towards the hotel, (blessing a few of the humans he came across on his way). As the night had swollen with the bustle and noise of humanity, he had felt - as usual - distinctly apart from it.

This was his world, but so much of what he loved about it was how it could be shared. Shared with human friends. Shared with Crowley. It was personal connection that made life on Earth meaningful, Aziraphale thought, as he made his way back through the hotel, to his room. He wanted that way of sharing to continue. He wanted more, too - but he was so afraid to ask.

Stumbling into bed, without even removing his socks or trousers, the angel had fallen asleep before his head had hit the pillow and not stirred until the next morning, when rays of sunlight through the open window curtains began to slide their way up, over his body.

.

It had been a strange experience, waking to a strange room and a strange country - but waking to feel Crowley nearby had been even stranger. After so many years of knowing the demon was over a mile away, in Mayfair, it was an indescribable comfort, to emerge from a hazy dreamworld and feel the quiet, electric thrum of his friend’s magic, just on the other side of the wall.

They had eaten breakfast on the terrace, two hours later, (once Crowley had grudgingly risen from his pit and made himself presentable). Sitting with the morning sun glinting off his glasses, the demon had talked about how his temptation had come along, the previous night, and Aziraphale had nibbled on his waffles and listened.

The whole scenario was surreal. Here he was, in a glittering, fantastical city on the sea - sharing breakfast with his hereditary enemy, out in the open, after spending a full night sleeping just a wall apart. Here they were, discussing spending the rest of the weekend in one another’s company. Discussing Crowley’s freelance work. Making small talk, around the implication that they were going to have to have a few very real talks, before the weekend was out. It was surreal. Overwhelming.

Crowley had done a good job of acting like his normal self, but Aziraphale could tell that it was mostly front. The corners of his mouth were pulled a little too tight, his slouch a little forced. He was nervous, the angel realised. 

It had been nice not to be the only one.

It had been nice, too, to get to the end of their meal and have Crowley take the lead.

“You could could come along, if you liked?” The demon had shrugged, across the table. “That is, if you’re not busy.” He had been wearing a pair of lighter sunglasses, in concession to the hour, and Aziraphale had been able to watch long pupils perform a nervous revolution around his face. “Mariam already knows that I have a friend in town and there’s plenty of room…” Crowley pulled a face. “We’re only going out for an hour or three. And it’s a big old yacht… Very fancy. You might enjoy it. You could whap out that awful straw hat you used to wear, to watch the tennis.”

“That was a perfectly appropriate hat,” the angel had retorted, feeling a little rush of pleasure at the tease. Teasing was good, he had told himself. Teasing was what they did.

What he wanted to stay the same and what needed to change, between him and Crowley, was difficult to work out. Every time Aziraphale thought about it too much, fear raced through him, leaving his corporation feeling weak and amorphous.

At a deep and integral level, the angel was terrified of change. He had only just come around for the idea that he and Crowley were allowed to be friends. For them to move on from that role, into the unknown, filled him with fear. There was too much uncertainty. He could not control the variables. But staying in one place did not help them either, Aziraphale had realised, over the last week of arguments and dithering. If there was one thing he had learned about the world, it was that nothing stayed the same for long.

He needed to be here. He needed to push himself. He needed to make decisions. This was something he could not put off, indefinitely. This was not just about him. Crowley’s needs played into it, too. And his friend deserved some indication of where this was going.

“Well,” he had cleared his throat, eyeing Crowley across the breakfast table. “That does sound lovely, but i’m not sure I have anything to wear that would be appropriate.”

“Buy something, then,” the demon had suggested, looking cautiously optimistic at the non-refusal. “Miracle it up.”

“I don’t do that with clothes, Crowley.”

“Oh, come oooon…” Throwing himself back in his chair, the demon had pushed his chin forwards, jutting his knees out. The pose was bold, aggressive - completely at odds with the way his right index finger kept rubbing over his right thumb. Crowley had a few little self-soothes and Aziraphale knew every one of them. “Come watch me work,” the demon pushed - one last push, one last offering of more.

And the moment had hung between them.

Soft eyes and harsh angles, Crowley had held his gaze and Aziraphale had realised this was a breaking point. They had spent their whole lives circling one another. Up until now, every major step forwards had been taken by Crowley. It had been the demon who initiated contact, on Eden’s wall. It had been the demon who had struck up conversation, the first dozen times that they met. It had been Crowley who had come back to him, over and over again, through the years; Crowley who suggested the arrangement; Crowley who presented opportunities for lunch and drinks; Crowley who had always turned up whenever he was in trouble. Aziraphale had to start shouldering some of the responsibility. If he wanted this, then he had to take a step forwards, too.

“I didn’t think you liked boats,” he had murmured, watching Crowley tongue at his teeth. “You get seasick.”

“It’s a yacht, angel. It’s hardly sailing the seven seas. You just park it in the shallows and drink champagne - which I happen to have a bit of a knack for.”

“Park it?”

“Yeah, you know, the bit with the anchor.”

“I think that’s called mooring, darling.”

Crowley’s busy tongue had stilled, for a moment, then continued around the edge of his right canine.

“Yeah. That one.”

_Darling._

The angel had half expected Crowley to call him on the endearment, or laugh it off, but the demon hadn’t. He just shifted his sunglass-shielded gaze over Aziraphale’s left shoulder, instead, and they’d sat like that for a minute, in a silence that was slightly warmer than usual.

“Very well, then,” Aziraphale had said, eventually. “I’ll join you. If you think your humans won’t mind?”

“They won’t mind, angel,” Crowley had replied, so softly.

.

And so, Aziraphale had come to the dock at the prearranged time. He had miracled his attire to be somewhat more appropriate for an afternoon at sea, (leaving his favourite waistcoat behind, out of fear it might get damaged, and resisting the urge to bring along a book). He had arrived and is standing, in a luxurious harbour, surrounded by a sea of gleaming chrome and wood.

He is wearing the hat.

He knows that Crowley will rib him for it. Actually, he rather hopes that Crowley will rib him for it. Ribbing would be a sign that things are okay, between them, (even if not fully resolved). Though, if the demon doesn’t tease, then at least the hat will function as a prop, the angel thinks. It will be something to do with his hands, during the inevitable moments when he and Crowley are alone together.

It’s funny, the angel thinks, stepping carefully along the dock. If one was to add up all the hours he and Crowley had spent alone together, they could probably fill a dozen mortal lifetimes. They had spent veritable hundreds of years drinking, and laughing, and talking nonsense together. They had always been comfortable like that, before, but now everything feels different. Looks are charged. Words carry more weight. Because this is a fork in the road, the angel thinks, staring up at the gleaming side of the nearest boat. This is where he and Crowley must choose to continue on, together, or head their separate ways.

The angel knows what he wants to happen. (It is, somehow, the more terrifying of the two prospects). He does not have the faintest idea how to get there, however. There seems such a huge distance between where he is, now, and what he imagines for them.

Just start with this, he tells himself. Just try and understand what Crowley needs, from this, and then perhaps you can face the rest.

He takes a slow breath, trying to regulate his nervous heart, then jumps at a sudden noise overhead.

“Hello!”

Aziraphale cranes his neck, looking up.

“Oh. Hello.”

A face has appeared, over the side of the boat. An unfamiliar face, framed in curls, stares down at him, throwing him a wide smile.

“You must be Aziraphale.”

“Yes.” The angel blinks. “The very same. How do you do?”

“Very well, thanks. Just a moment.” The face disappears and then - a rumble of footsteps on stairs and a few seconds later - reappears further down the boat, where the deck is only a foot or two above the water. “Come this way.”

The angel hurries over.

“Do I just-?”

“Yeah, just hop on. Mind the step.”

The face belongs to man in his late twenties, who offers Aziraphale a hand to help him aboard and introduces himself as Jacob, before launching into a spirited monologue about the weather and the city, and how lovely it is to meet Aziraphale - before prefacing the afternoon with the (slightly disturbing) fact that neither his fiancé, nor or her brother, knew a damned thing about boats, so they were probably all going to drown.

“I imagine we’ll have a lovely time before we do, though,” he smiles, leading Aziraphale cheerfully through the lower deck, past sleek metal fittings and varnished wood.

Everything on the boat is modern and flawless, luxury written into the lines of it. The angel has spent enough time in the palaces of kings and temples not to be over-awed by decadence, but he knows craftsmanship when he sees it. He pauses to admire a hand-carved barstool, as they pass.

“One of my father’s,” Jacob comments, following his gaze. “He used to work for Mariam’s family. That’s how we met.”

“Oh, how charming. It is exceptional work.”

“Yeah, not half bad,” the young man beams. “Come on. This way.”

.

They find Crowley and two other humans on the deck. The demon’s back is turned, when they arrive. It is the young woman at his shoulder who is the first to notice them.

She steps over, long dress wafting behind her.

“Did you manage to check the filters?” She asks Jacob. Her accent is mixed. Aziraphale can identify west African French and something that might be Swiss. As the young man nods to the affirmative, she turns, fixing the angel with dark brown eyes and a smile that is softer than he had expected. “You must be Aziraphale.” She holds out her hand. “I’m Mariam.”

The angel takes it.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mariam.” 

“Likewise.” She tilts her chin, expression shifting to something a little playful. “Anthony has refused to tell us a single thing about you. It is all very mysterious.”

Aziraphale feels his cheeks flush. The use of ‘Anthony’ reminds him of a church and soaring emotion in his gut.

Glancing over the young woman’s shoulder, he finds the demon a few feet away, watching him with a slightly tense expression.

“Oh, well, I just happened to be in town this weekend,” he blusters, to the humans, trying to keep it light. “It is very kind of you all to invite me to join you, really.”

“Not at all. It is our pleasure,” Mariam repeats. Then, giving the angel’s hand a tiny squeeze, she adds, quietly, “He is very charming, your friend. I would have followed him down here, too.”

Aziraphale blinks.

“Oh-, I-,”

But, before he can answer, the young woman is sliding her hand free and drifting off towards the upper deck.

“Make yourself comfortable, my dear. We’ll be heading off in a few minutes.”

“Right you are.”

Aziraphale watches her go, Jacob falling in beside her, running through a list of things to check before they cast off.

“You must excuse my sister,” the third human says, stepping up to Aziraphale as the angel turns back around. “Captaining this thing has gone to her head, but she has always been a tyrant.” He holds out a hand.

The angel shakes it, dazedly.

“I’m Matthieu.”

“Aziraphale.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Retracting his hand and throwing Crowley a half-look, the human reaches into his pocket for a mobile phone. “If you gents will excuse me, for a moment, I need to make a call.”

“Yes.”

“Course.”

The man called ‘Matthieu’ heads off, after his sister and Jacob, towards the upper deck, leaving Aziraphale and Crowley alone.

Silence gathers around them, soaking through the cracks.

“Well…” the angel eventually clears his throat, looking over at the demon. Crowley is dressed differently than he had been at breakfast. He looks exactly the part to be lounging about on an expensive yacht - clean cut, suave, handsome. “Here we are, then.” The angel fiddles with his thumbs.

“Here we are.”

A few seconds pass in semi-awkward silence.

“They all seem lovely,” Aziraphale says, motioning over his shoulder. “Your humans.”

“Mm. Twentieth century model, circa early eighties. They come with the standard mix of loveliness, bravado, and crippling anxiety.”

It’s a little quip - a sign that Crowley is trying to keep this relaxed, and Aziraphale finds himself smiling, stupidly, because of it. Then, he finds himself blushing because he is smiling. Then, sweating because he is blushing.

He looks away, in an attempt to regain some control, eyes catching on the control panel behind the demon. There are shiny brass knobs and levers, dials with numbers and some sort of screen which is currently displaying a series of dots. It looks more fitting for a spacecraft than a mid-sized boat. Aziraphale has no idea what he would do with any of it. He wonders, vaguely, whether it bears any resemblance to the workings of the Bentley.

“I suppose, I should ask permission to come aboard,” he smiles, motioning towards the instruments. “That is an old naval tradition, is it not?”

The very corner of Crowley’s mouth twitches.

“I think you’re supposed to ask before getting on the boat, angel.”

“Oh.”

“And to some sort of officer.”

“Silly me.”

“Permission granted, though.”

“Right.”

Aziraphale feels his the weight of his stomach rather heavier than usual, pressing against his diaphragm. Coupled with the tightness of his throat, it is getting a little hard to breathe. 

Across the way, Crowley clears his throat, the smirk fading from his lips. He watches Aziraphale for a long ten seconds. Then, taking his weight off the instrument panel, he takes a step forwards.

“I’m glad you came.”

Aziraphale feels the blush spread across his forehead. He focusses his attention down, on the grey of Crowley’s trousers, on the few inches of ankle he can see beneath the turned up cuffs.

“Well, you may not be for long,” he blusters, hating that he cannot just accept the softness of his friend’s statement. “I am an appalling sailor.”

“Mm.” Crowley takes another step closer and reaches out. Hooking one thumb under the brim of his hat, he lifts, slowly, and Aziraphale’s eyes lift with it. There is a sliver of golden iris visible, over the rim of the demon’s sunglasses. The long black pupils are fixed directly on his. “I wasn’t going to ask you to steer.”

Aziraphale breathes out, a little too heavily.

“Right… probably for the best.”

In one fluid motion, his friend lifts the hat off and turns it around, placing it down on his own head. Aziraphale watches, fondness blooming to life within him - the emotion swelling to a crescendo as Crowley tips his chin back and stares purposefully off into the horizon.

He is doing it on purpose, the angel realises, fear melting away inside of him. Crowley is looking silly on purpose to put him at ease and it is ridiculous. It’s perfect.

“I’ve always liked this hat,” the demon deadpans.

And the tension breaks.

Laughter bubbles up inside the angel. Giving a soft snort, he bows his head.

Beside him, Crowley visibly tries to keep his face straight, but to no avail. The two friends collapse into shudders of mirth and all awkwardness forgotten, between them. The air around them suddenly feels light. The sky is clear and open, and the day is warm, and Crowley’s eyes are twinkling. The angel can see dimples in both of the demon’s cheeks, as the laughter continues to spill across his face.

“Oh, give it back,” he chuckles, reaching for the hat as Crowley tries to dodge him. “It’s a-,”

“Hey!”

“-perfectly serviceable summer accessory.”

“It is _ghastly_.”

“You were the one who suggested I wear it.”

“I thought we were safe - I didn’t think you still had it!”

“It only took a small miracle.”

“Oh, so, you wouldn’t miracle yourself a napkin, at breakfast, but you’ll send for this all the way from London?” His friend exclaims, eventually letting Aziraphale retrieve the hat. “You are ridiculous.”

The laughter dribbles out, leaving the angel feeling very warm inside, and slightly tingly.

Crowley clears his throat, eyeing him. 

“You lost the tie, too,” he comments, nodding towards Aziraphale’s neck, where the top two buttons of his shirt are undone.

“Yes.”

It is sitting, folded neatly on top of the waistcoat, on his bed, back at the hotel. For a moment, Aziraphale feels the urge to snap his fingers and bring them both to him, to return his suit - currently linen - to its usual wool. But he holds back, and the urge fades away again.

“Don’t think I’ve seen your neck in about three centuries,” the demon comments.

“I don’t think I’ve seen your ankles in longer,” the angel murmurs back.

“Well, then, this is titillating for everybody involved.”

It is a sarcastic little comment, but there is more than an ounce of truth in it, so they both become quickly interested in something else in the room, for a few seconds.

Crowley recovers first, as per usual.

“Listen, uh… Are you really okay with this? In all seriousness.”

He’s asking because it is a job, Aziraphale thinks, looking back around. At the end of the day, this is a job from Hell, and Crowley is a demon, and though the preface of this has all been lovely - with the sun and the pretty boat, and the amusingly charming humans - there is inevitably going to be moral ambiguity, involved that an angel would not normally involve themselves in.

“I want to see you work,” Aziraphale says softly. He needs this. He needs to understand this part of Crowley. They have spent too long looking away from the aspects of one another that they find difficult. But they cannot do that and move on. “I'd like to stay, if that’s alright with you?”

Crowley pulls a little pout.

“Fine by me. So long as you’re not in the way.” He shifts weight over one hip and then back again, a bit awkward all of a sudden. “If you, uh… do end up wanting to leave, then just let me know. I can erase their memory of you being here in a second.” The demon mimes a snap. Shrugs. “No pressure to hang about if it’s not your thing. Alright?”

Aziraphale wants to slide his hands over his face and groan into them. He cannot equate Crowley, sometimes. There are moments of infuriating juvenile nonsense pushed up against moments of pure wisdom - crude hilarity coexisting with tender concern. One person cannot be made up of so much, the angel thinks. It is too beautiful a contradiction.

“I’ll tell you,” he assures the demon, softly, wishing he was better at this - hating the fact that he’s jealous of Crowley, for being better at this.

The thought causes the demon's words, from back at the bookshop, to reverberate through his memory. 

_“You always have to be the good guy, don’t you?”_

He needs to let go of this simplistic view of them, Aziraphale thinks - this good and evil, this divide. It isn’t helpful. It isn’t healthy.

Taking a deep breath, he holds it for a moment, then lets it out in a sigh.

“Show me how this blessed thing works, then?” He asks, motioning towards the ship.

Crowley cracks a grin - a playful thing that is half relief, half anticipation of demonic mischief.

“Well, okay.”

He turns back to the dials and levers and Aziraphale steps up beside him, trying not to shiver as their elbows brush.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you are all enjoying, so far! Only one more update to go before you all get to see Crowley in swimwear... ;)


	5. Crowley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Passing mention of drug use in this chapter.

.

There are moments in Crowley’s life where the demon suffers out-of-body experiences - where he feels as if he is floating up, out of his corporeal form, to watch proceedings from somewhere off in the middle distance. For a creature who could actually leave his body, should the mood take him, it is a strange predicament to find oneself in.

It only happens in moments of extreme unreality, Crowley has decided. Like the time he had found himself, on stage, performing The Hot Honey Rag, in order to keep his cover with some humans. Or the time he’d had to crawl, on his belly, through a frosty barbed wire field, in the midst of a mortar barrage. It happens when he is doing something a demon should not find himself doing. It happens when he’s doing something inherently stupid and human.

It is happening, now. Leaning against the railing of the top deck of a boat, he is watching Aziraphale sitting on the lower deck, chatting amiably away to two of the humans, and he cannot help but feel like he’s drawing away from the situation - stepping back so that he can take it all in and check that, yes, this _is_ actually happening. He is actually here, living this day out, in real time.

The whole afternoon has been surreal. He is stood on a ridiculously expensive yacht, (generally not his scene, but at least the waves are gentle, today), moored in jewel bright waters off a rocky coast. The sky overhead is brightest blue and his companions are impossibly beautiful young things - chattering away like birds and worrying over problems that only impossibly beautiful young things could have. There is champagne and Jacob is smoking something stronger than tobacco on a deckchair, on the lower deck. And Matthieu is talking to Aziraphale with a serious expression that seems at odds with the gentle smile the angel is wearing. And Crowley's angel…

_Crowley’s angel._

He’s got an angel on a boat, the demon thinks, resting his forearms against the railing, feeling the sun’s heat seep back out of it, into his skin. He’s got an angel on a boat, in the north of the Mediterranean, surrounded by blue skies and saltwater, and sun.

The setting itself, is not entirely novel. This is not the first time they have been out together, on this sea. It is not the first time they have sat on a boat, feeling these waves rock them gently. Crowley can remember three times, in total - two in the Aegean, and one along the northern coast of Sicily. He can remember moments along the Mediterranean shores, as well. Meeting Aziraphale on a beach, in Crete, and squabbling over some family that they were both supposed to target. He can remember arriving into a port, in Cyprus, and finding the angel haggling with a vendor over a long strip of silk.

Through the ages, there has been a comforting similarity in how the angel has presented himself. He has almost invariably been a ‘he’. He has always had soft curls of hair and been clean-shaven - unless cultural norms, at the time, had required a beard. He has always been soft. He’s never had that hardness that other angels carried with them - that strength that carried through into the shape of their bodies. Aziraphale’s strength is different, Crowley thinks, watching his friend from above. It is far greater for being latent, for being hidden, for the angel not wanting to wield it against another living soul.

The demon’s eyes trace the curve of an angelic shoulder, watching muscle flex beneath the plush padding of flesh. He watches Aziraphale reach out, laying a few comforting fingertips against a human elbow. So strong. So gentle.

After Eden, Crowley thinks, humanity had spread out across the deserts. They carried Aziraphale’s strength with them, in that sword. Over the years, as they had grown more numerous and had to compete for the land’s meagre resources, humanity had renamed that strength as power, and then renamed power as supremacy - and war had been born, in the spaces around it. Strife is what humanity do, with strength, thinks Crowley. Damage is what Hell does. Aziraphale, however, has always remained soft.

Crowley lets his eyes trail over the scene, again - the angel and the water and the sky. He feels very far away from it all, for a moment. He feels lost in the enormity of history that they carry along with them.

Barring the detail of clothing and the modern amenities of the boat, this scene could have come from any number of years, in their past. They have sailed together, rowed together, swam together countless times. They have sat on shores, on docks, and under bright skies together. They have watched generations rise and fall. They have existed in the periphery of this world for so long, Crowley thinks, but times are changing. He wants something different, now. He wants to exist less and live more. He wants to feel. He wants to touch.

Aziraphale had touched his arm that morning, Crowley thinks. They had stood, after their shared breakfast, and the angel had reached out and brushed his shoulder, thanking him for the invitation. And then, he’d agreed to come along, on this ridiculous boat trip - not to further a blessing, or thwart a temptation, but for Crowley. Just for Crowley.

The demon runs a hand around the back of his neck, pushing fingers through his hair, trying to imagine a world where Aziraphale’s fingers might follow that same route.

Touch isn’t a big deal, on paper, he thinks. It is just the proximity of two corporeal forms, a strictly physical event. It should be no more meaningful to touch Aziraphale’s body than to touch a tree, or an apple. But somehow it is. Somehow, the reality is surprisingly intense.

Crowley is sure a large part of it comes from the fact that, historically, he and Aziraphale do not touch. Touch had been a part of the physical world - a human thing - and the idea that they might want to connect on such a level, had always felt taboo. They had been put on Earth to oppose, after all. This was the stage on which where they were meant to be at their most different, their most antagonistic. The idea of wanting to share in it, instead - to use their corporations not to fight but for physical pleasure - had always felt more forbidden than anything else.

Crowley slides a hand back around, squeezing the join of his neck and shoulder, feeling the reassuring solidity of his current shape. He has always liked having a body. He has always liked being able to interpret the world on a physical level, as well as a detached, occult one. His tastes are specific, mind - he’s never taken to food, for instance - but he does like sensation. He likes the richness of a good wine, and the warmth of sunlight on skin. He likes the ache in his muscles, when he’s pushed himself to his limit. He likes the sensation of air swelling in his lungs, expanding his ribs, the rush of endorphins. He likes the crescendo and break of release.

The demon swallows - thinking sex, thinking bodies.

On the deck below, the angel leans back, nodding at the young human he is talking with, folding his hands in his lap. Crowley lets his eyes trace over his friend’s hands, finding the creases in their fingers, the little folds where they bend and touch.

He can remember the first time he’d wanted to touch Aziraphale. It had been only a handful of years before Golgotha. They had both been working in the same area, at the time, and had happened upon one another amidst a grove of fruit trees. The afternoon had been hot and the angel had been bitching about something - probably the heat, or the lack of fancy oils to clean himself with, or the subpar performance of his new sleeping mat - and Crowley had squirmed over and pulled a handful of the fruit from one of the trees, presenting it to him, to shut him up.

Aziraphale had done his usual rigmarole of ‘oh, I shouldn’t’, but he had inevitably selected a fig and brought it to his lips. And Crowley had watched this mimicry of humanity with fascination. The way the angel had bitten into the flesh of it, tearing it open, letting it play over his tongue as he chewed and swallowed. The demon had stared, not quite understanding, not quite able to place this new feeling of need which was creeping up his spine.

It hadn’t been about sex, exactly. It hadn’t been so specific, at first. It had been something to do with intimacy, though. Watching the angel, Crowley had wanted to slide his fingers in after that fig, and feel the warm, wet inside of his counterpart’s mouth. He’d wanted to lick at Aziraphale’s lips and see if the fruit tasted different, from the inside. He’d wanted to share in the sensation of it all, somehow - in the pleasure.

In the end, he had just offered Aziraphale another few figs and then slunk off, to evaluate this new impulse in private. He hadn’t really worried much about the whole thing, at first. He’d assumed it was just a weird kink of mortal bodies - a bit of ‘oh, someone’s having something nice, maybe I’d like that, too’. It wasn’t until some months later, when he realised he was thinking exclusively about Aziraphale eating while he got himself off, that he reevaluated the whole thing and decided it was probably something to repress.

Shifting against the railing, Crowley’s brow furrows over the top of his sunglasses.

He is still not entirely sure exactly what Aziraphale likes, in regards to sex. He’s almost positive that the angel enjoys some level of physical intimacy, because they’ve known one another for a very long time and he’s picked up on plenty of non-verbal cues. There are moments that Aziraphale shies away from, after all, and others that cause his eyes to linger, but Crowley has never outright asked his friend what he goes in for. They have never crossed that line, however drunk or desperate they’ve been. And what the angel wants, with other people, might not translate to them, anyway.

And that’s the problem, the demon thinks. There is a huge difference between wanting to fuck your best friend senseless against the nearest piece of furniture, and what Crowley is really after, here, which something so horrifically feeling-y that it makes him want to curl up under his bed and not show his face for six hundred years, (possibly longer). Crowley isn’t after a shag. He’s after a mate. He wants a partner. And he knows that Aziraphale loves him, cares about him, probably wants to fuck him, but he needs more than that. He needs all of that with the promise that it won’t be taken away, again.

“Ngh...” Crowley hisses the consonants out softly.

It is an expression of exasperation, of need. It is not meant to be heard. So, he stiffens, as he hears a response from over his shoulder.

“How long have you known one another?”

The demon gives a little start, twisting around.

The young woman is approaching, silently, across the upper deck, two glasses of sparkling wine in her hands. She offers one out to Crowley, her eyes taking him in - taking in the scene on the deck below. She is wearing a knowing look that the demon hates having directed at him, because a human of thirty two years old should not be able to take one look and sum him up. He hates the arrogance of them thinking they can. He hates the fact that they are very often right.

“Long time,” he answers, taking the glass, draining half of it in one gulp. “Forever, really.”

The young woman makes a little noise, as if to say ‘suit yourself’, and moves to stand beside him, overlooking the others.

On the lower deck, Aziraphale is now talking with the young woman’s fiancé, Jacob. The brother, Matthieu, is listening, occasionally chipping in when the angel runs a question between them. He’s always been good at bridging the gaps, the demon thinks, taking a smaller sip of wine. He’s so good with people. So good.

Because he’s an _angel_ , Crowley’s brain chants, unhelpfully. An angel…

Aziraphale is an angel in a pale blue shirt, with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms flecked with golden hair. He’s an angel who has left his tie behind, that morning, the side of whose neck can be seen as he tilts his head to the side. He’s an angel in a stupid hat. (It is such a stupid, stupid hat). Crowley can see a few curls peeking out from beneath it, at the nape of his neck, and has to quash the embarrassing impulse to vault over the railing, stride across the deck, and push his face into them. He wants to bury his face in the side of the angel's neck and just inhale. Breathe his friend in entirely.

“We grew up together,” he mutters, towards the young woman at his side, feeling that the very least he can get, out of being discovered in such an embarrassing situation, is a bit of headway on his temptation.

He’s yet to bond with Mariam in a way which will help him accomplish his goal. He needs to push her into reaching a peace with her brother, and that will require conversations they are not close enough to have, yet. Perhaps, a bit of vulnerability is in order, the demon thinks.

“He’s always been my friend,” he tells the young woman.

“You are both from London?”

“Mmh.” Crowley makes a noise which could easily be mistaken for affirmative.

“It can be nice,” the young woman says, voice carefully soft, “to share that sort of history.”

“Mmh,” Crowley says, again.

“Challenging, too.”

The demon glances over, watches the young woman as she watches the angel, and the two human men.

“I’ve known Jacob since I was five and he was six,” she offers, after a pause.

Crowley feels a strange twist at the admission - pleasure that his offer of vulnerability has borne fruit, as well as a little awkwardness in the way he is unveiling this human’s privacy for his own purposes.

“He seems like a nice bloke,” he offers, neutrally.

“The very kindest. Though my brother and father never approved.”

“Yeah, well,” Crowley is tempted to say ‘fuck ‘em’, but he knows that’s not the direction he needs to take, here. He needs to facilitate a group bonding moment, some time later this weekend. He is going to need these estranged humans to agree on something with wide reaching consequences and - like it or not - the moment is going to be largely based on emotion. “People don’t always know what’s best,” he settles on, eventually, hedging his bets.

Mariam twists a lip, sucks at her teeth.

“People usually know. People do not usually care.”

“Mmh.” Crowley bites his tongue. Again.

“I try not to walk around like a fucking cliche about it, though,” the young woman offers, after a pause. She casts the demon a sideways glance as she says it - amusement in the dark pools of her eyes. “There is only so long one can milk the ‘damaged heiress’ trope. It does get dull, after a while.” 

A smile pulls at Crowley’s mouth, despite himself.

“What angle do you go for instead?” He quips. “Tortured artist?”

“Oh, no… Wise soul, trapped in a hedonist’s body.”

Crowley gives a little snort into his champagne.

The young woman smiles, softly.

“Well, cheers to that,” the demon drinks, eyeing his own hedonist, down on the lower deck.

“And what about you?”

“Hm?”

“What role do you play, to survive this world, Anthony?” The young woman turns sideways against the railing, cradling the glass between both of her hands.

“Myself, mainly.”

“Tortured artist?”

“Fallen angel.”

That earns him a smile.

“You cannot have been that bad a boy, to have known Matthieu at University,” she smiles. “My brother was alway so very well behaved.”

“Yeah, well, I fell in with the wrong crowd.”

“Mm.” Mariam eyes him, takes another sip, then moves off down a different track. “You call Aziraphale ‘angel’,” she motions, to the lower deck and Aziraphale. “Yet, he calls you by your family name. A bit odd, for old friends, no?” She lifts one dark eyebrow.

“It’s a posh public school thing,” Crowley mutters, forcing something a little aggressive into the line of his shoulders to hide his unease. “Comes along with the subliminal urge to bugger one another.”

The human’s mouth curves, slightly, but she doesn’t laugh. She seems to see right through the part where Crowley had tried to frame it as a joke.

“I suppose, I should be grateful my mother sent me to school in Geneva,” she replies, instead, softening the need for a response.

“Probably.”

They stand for a while, gazing around themselves, letting the conversation settle. Then, Crowley takes a slow breath and presses gently ahead. He leans a little into his powers as he does it. Just a hint of magic, to loosen up the edges of the young human’s will, to open her mind to thepossibility of temptation.

“How are things, with your brother? I know the pair of you haven’t always seen eye to eye.”

“Matthieu…” the young woman breathes out, turning back forwards and pulling a face. Her eyes are slightly more distant, than before. “He is so like my father, sometimes.”

“I take it you didn’t get along with him, either?”

“My father was a difficult man to get along with.”

“What was it? High expectations, neglect, or some combination of both?”

Mariam lifts a graceful chin.

“It is disappointingly mundane, I’m afraid. I imagine he must have loved us, when he conceived the idea of having a family, but the reality must not have matched up. He always supported us, of course. There were nannies, and playmates, and all of our favourite things.” The young woman waves a hand, vaguely. “We wanted for nothing, but he was not interested in anything beyond that. I do not think I had a single conversation with him that went beyond the superficial. After my mother died, we sort of drifted apart.”

“And Matthieu?”

Crowley knows they had fought and fallen out over their late mother’s estate. He knows that there is bad blood, there, tied up in the ten years between them - the ten years more than Matthieu got to spend with her. He does not want to unbox it, just prod the edge a little, see if there are any weak spots.

“We used to be close. We fought. We made up, but it is not the same as it was,” the young woman explains, succinctly. “Some things cannot be taken back.”

Crowley knows the feeling.

“Suppose you’ll have to spend a lot more time together, now, though,” he presses, anyway. “That is, if you’ve both inherited a seat on the board of your father’s company?”

Mariam looks over, expression slightly more sharp than before. There is a challenge in her eyes. It takes a gentle press of Crowley’s powers to soothe out her suspicion. The demon breathes out as she sighs and shrugs, downing the last inch of her wine.

“I doubt either of us will wish to be involved in that. The company carries with it bad memories, and my brother and I both have our own careers. Our uncle has offered to buy us out.”

“Your father’s brother?”

“Yes.”

“A good man?”

“No. Not by any stretch of the imagination.”

This surprises Crowley. Humans usually lie to themselves that they are doing the right thing - or at least mitigate how wrong an action is, with some justification. He had expected a lie, or a least a half-truth.

“If he’s such a bastard, why sell your shares to him?” He asks, out of curiosity.

Mariam purses her lips, then sighs.

“I suppose, it is the path of least resistance,” she says, eventually. “Sometimes, the best thing to do with the past is to let it go.”

The moment shimmers. Then, something shifts in one of them, breaking through the faint glamour of Crowley’s powers, and the young woman comes to herself.

Giving her head a little shake, she looks around, appearing mildly disconcerted at the depth of conversation they'd been having. Noticing that both of their champagne flutes are empty, she seizes upon it as a distraction..

“My apologies. I am being a terrible host.” She reaches out, taking the long stemmed glass out of the demon’s hands, avoiding his gaze. “Let me fill you up.” And then she’s gone, her skirt drifting after her.

Crowley watches her go, wondering how much impact he’s had. A little magic, at the right moment, pressed into the right sentence, will leave an idea ringing in a human’s ears all night. A little glamour, when a human is feeling doubt, can push them right to the brink of an epiphany. But it always needs to be the human who steps over the line.

This human’s choices are as good as made, Crowley thinks. Mariam believes her relationship with her brother to be near to irredeemable. She appears set on selling her shares to her uncle. And the words she had parted with had probably had more effect on Crowley than any of his had on her.

The demon swallows as he turns back around, to look out over the gentle, turquoise sea. He can hear Aziraphale laugh, softly, on the deck below. It sends a searing spike of uncertainty right through Crowley.

_Sometimes, the best thing to do with the past is to let it go._

He does not want to let go. He does not want to be let go of.

One of the humans speaks, prompting Aziraphale to laugh again, and something in it pulls at Crowley - a momentary intensifying of that _awareness_ , that magnetism, that has always existed between them. He looks down, just in time to see the angel turn his head, searching for him.

Their eyes catch across the distance and the demon experiences another one of those moments where he’s watching the whole thing play out in slow motion, from a long way away.

He’s got an angel on a boat, in a gentle rolling sea. He’s got his best friend sitting a minute away, looking up at him, the edges of his magic all sort of tingly, because he is having a nice time. And Crowley can sense it. He’s always been able to sense the shifting of Aziraphale’s moods. He can sense when the angel needs him, or when he is afraid, or unsure. He can feel the air shimmer around him, when he is happy.

Sometimes, in those moments, it feels so much like they are connected but it is always a passing thing. It is dipping his toes in something when Crowley wants to drown in it. He wants to belong. The details of how are negotiable but, whatever they are, he needs them to be set firm. He needs Aziraphale to be sure.

Straightening, Crowley presses his hands into the heat of the boat’s metal railing, and gives the angel a nod. He’ll be down in a moment. Aziraphale smiles, in reply. One of those wide, open smiles that makes the demon want to claw his own skin off to release the stinging tension underneath.

He fucking loves it. He cannot bear it.

Turning, Crowley makes his way back into the interior of the boat, to change.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me lurking on [IG](https://www.instagram.com/heycaricari/), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/heycaricari), and [Tumblr](https://heycaricari.tumblr.com/) @heycaricari
> 
> One more chapter to go until you all get to see [AJ's](https://www.instagram.com/theeyjayy/) incredible illustration. So excited to share! 
> 
> Also, I've had a bit of a week. If you can spare a moment, please leave a comment below. I could use the validation. Cx. 
> 
> .


	6. Aziraphale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, thank you all so much for your kind comments. I've had a really difficult few weeks, so i've been rubbish at replying, but I appreciate every single one. Secondly, this chapter is the last of the angst. It's just a swan dive into softness and smut from here on in. So, thanks for sticking with the story so far. 
> 
> And, now... it is time for **the ART!!!**
> 
> So, I was the lucky bastard who got paired with [AJ](https://www.instagram.com/theeyjayy/) for the [Do It With Style Mini Bang](https://do-it-with-style-events.tumblr.com/post/621816813787987968/mark-your-calendars). This has been my first collab and I have had an absolutely fantastic time. I have not only made a new friend, but have had one of my favourite scenes from 'Saltwater' brought to life in more detail than it ever existed in my head. Honestly. It's been a whole thing and I am completely in awe of the artistic wizardry. So, if you do not already follow AJ, please click the link and check out the rest of their work. And stay tuned for some top quality illustration near the end of this chapter!
> 
> * * *

.

“Crowley!”

The angel shrinks back as the demon emerges from the ocean, half an hour after throwing himself in. Crowley is soaking wet, hair hanging in shaggy waves across his forehead. As he pulls himself onto the boat, he shakes, spraying water around with more than the necessary amount of vigour.

“Oh, for goodness sake,” the angel frowns at his friend, feeling his heart rate pick up as the demon takes the words as invitation to stagger closer. “Here, take this and dry yourself properly.” He holds out a towel, from a nearby deckchair, trying to avoid being dripped on as his friend seizes it. “Stop shaking - you’re not a dog!” 

“Ta.” The demon rubs himself down, roughly, then emerges tousle-headed and breathing a little fast from his exertions. “Bloody hell, it’s cold out there! Think I’ve lost feeling in my toes.”

“Well, that can’t be ideal.”

“S’fine. They’ll come back. Reckon I could manage without toes, anyway.” The snake demon pads closer, running the towel over his naked torso. “Managed without feet, before.”

Aziraphale eyes him, feeling suddenly self conscious. It is the first time that the pair of them have been alone since he had arrived, that morning. Matthieu has disappeared into one of the boat’s small cabins, to take a call, while the other two humans were still frolicking in the water, nearby.

The little group had decided to moor their boat in a small cove, for the afternoon, where dolphins might be spotted. The two younger humans and Crowley had swum out to some nearby rocks with a pair of binoculars, while Aziraphale had remained sitting on the deck, watching proceedings.

The angel had never really taken to swimming. Even in the early days, when transport by water had been a more frequent occurrence, he had never learned to do more than stay afloat. It had alway been Crowley who had enjoyed throwing himself into ponds and streams, splashing around with the sort of excitement usually reserved for human children. The angel would occasionally dip a foot in, to paddle, but for the most part watched from the sidelines.

He is actively trying not to watch, now. Crowley has turned his attention to rubbing the water out of his ears. He’s stopped only two feet away, glistening with water, and lean, and pale. He’s got one hip cocked, throwing a shadow across his belly and drawing more attention than Aziraphale feels is strictly necessary to his afternoon’s attire - a piece of swimwear so obscenely small that Aziraphale it is not entirely sure it would be legal, on a public beach. It’s something incongruously delicate. A pretty monochrome fabric, with a ruffle along each side that provides marked contrast to the sharp edge of Crowley's hips.

Aziraphale cannot decide whether he wants to say something disapproving or press his mouth against those hips and suck. (He’s fairly sure it is the latter. And he’s absolutely sure he disproves of that, so he purses his lips, instead, to distract himself).

“Did you see any dolphins, then?” He asks, nodding towards the water.

Crowley casts him a brief, sideways look.

“Nah.” Throwing the towel down on a nearby deckchair, the demon throws himself down, on top of it. “Not a dolphin in sight.” Pulling off his sunglasses off, he hangs them over the back of the chair, to drip dry. “Probably for the best, to be honest. Jacob has fish tattooed all over his back. The idiot would have probably been eaten alive.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale looks over, meeting his friend’s gaze without the veil of glasses for the first time all day. “Are dolphins generally cannibalistic?”

“Eh?”

“Fish, eating fish.”

Crowley’s face cracks in a grin.

“Dolphins are mammals, mate,” he laughs, the moment clearly having caught him by surprise, because the smile is easy and genuine. It pulls the shadow of a dimple up, in his cheek. “Live young and nips, and everything.” The demon waves a hand idly across the region of his own chest, where his nipples are are beaded tight from the cold. “Same thing as whales,” he expands, after a moment or two, “only smaller.”

Aziraphale forces his eyes off to the horizon, as casually as he can manage.

“Oh, yes. Of course they are. Silly me.”

“We should get you one of those books, for kids,” Crowley jokes, gently, after a moment of watching him. (Probably admiring the faint flush that Aziraphale can feel, creeping up his neck, at the mention of demonic nipples). “You know, the big encyclopaedias with the pictures of all the animals, and what the male and female ones look like, and what the babies are called, etcetera… Warlock used to have one.” The demon looks briefly nostalgic, then throws another grin. “He liked the hyenas best, because the pictures of the females made his mother uncomfortable.”

Aziraphale frowns.

“Why?”

“Oh, eh…” Crowley blinks and pulls a face, then busies himself scrabbling around over the side of the deck chair for a glass of champagne he’d stowed there, earlier. “You know, I can’t remember, precisely.” He drinks a rather large gulp of the wine.

“Right.”

Aziraphale lets out a slow breath and forces his eyes out to sea, again, scanning for the two younger humans. He finds the man, Jacob, on a rock, pointing out at a nearby coastline. The woman, Mariam, is half submerged in the water nearby, looking up at him. They look relaxed, replete in one another’s barely-clad company - exactly the opposite to how Aziraphale is feeling.

Forcing his mind to focus on small talk, the angel looks back around at his companion. Crowley is stretched out on the deck chair, one leg bent, the other thrown out to one side. He is still damp, and nearly-naked, and pale. It takes nearly all of Aziraphale’s mental capacity to tamp down on the urge to look away, and all the rest of it to keep his eyes rooted on Crowley’s face.

“So, how is your temptation coming along, with the humans?” It comes out rather forced. There had been no reason to qualify ‘with the humans’, Aziraphale realises, as the words leave his lips, but he cannot do a nothing about it, now. Closing his jaw a little too tight, he attempts to freeze his expression in one of casual interest.

Crowley eyes him for a few seconds, then gives an enormous yawn, showing off the pink vaulted roof of his mouth.

“Mmfh… Yeah, it’s going alright. I had a bit of a breakthrough with Matthieu, earlier. Dropped a couple of hints about other routes he could go down, rather than selling out to their uncle.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, thought options might make him feel less trapped. Might make it easier for him to reach an agreement, with his sister.”

Aziraphale watches his friend, admiration pulling at his insides.

Today has been one long experience of re-evaluating his assumptions, about Crowley. He had always interpreted demonic temptations to be a much simpler process, before - certainly, all of the temptations he had weaved, on Crowley’s behalf, have always been simpler. Now, he thinks, he must have spent the last however-many centuries of The Arrangement selling his friend short.

He remembers, dimly, tempting a clan leader to steal some cattle, some four hundred years ago - remembers the confusion in the man’s eyes as he had stood there, afterwards, with a field of cows which he had no use for. He remembers relaying the tale to Crowley and the little curl of his counterpart’s lips. When the angel had asked if Hell would be satisfied, Crowley had just grumbled ‘don’t worry about it’ and taken a long draught of ale.

“I would have started a bit further up, with the motivations,” he had explained, when Aziraphale had pressed the matter, “but it’s done. Stolen cattle is what Hell asked for. There will be plenty of retribution and angst, and whatever other useless nonsense they want to achieve. So, don’t worry about it.”

Aziraphale had taken him at his word, then. Now, he suspects that Crowley has probably had to do a lot of cleaning up, in his wake, over the years. Far more than Aziraphale had ever had to do, for the demon.

Crowley’s work here seems to be going well enough, though. There have been several points, during the day, that Aziraphale has noticed his friend slip off with one of the humans to share a quiet conversation. Most of his work seems to be accomplished through carefully chosen words but there have been a few spells that the angel has noticed. Little things, really. Things like steering the humans into one another’s company, prompting contact. Magic to weave nostalgia, to prolong daydreams. And, slowly but noticeably, the siblings are growing less prickly with one another.

Crowley has always been good with people, Aziraphale thinks. He had to learn his skills the hard way, too. He had never benefited from the natural aura that surrounded the angel - that thing that made humans instinctively trust Aziraphale. The demon has had to learn how to charm and manipulate. He has had to learn how to balance self interest and respect. It is a different skill set to what Aziraphale is used to. And an unexpected pleasure to watch.

“Do you think they are ready for tomorrow?” The angel asks his friend, with interest. “For the memorial service? To make a decision on the company?”

The demon wrinkles his nose.

“I think I might need another chat with Mariam. She still seems conflicted about it all. I think Matthieu is ready to put it all behind him and move on, but she might be holding out for some sort of redemption arc, or a big gesture.” He shrugs, stretches. “Might need another little nudge. I thought I might ask her to help me get ready for dinner, later on. You know… bit of _bonding_.” He curls his lip around the word, as if it is something sour.

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow.

“Do you find it helps, sharing in those rituals?”

“Sometimes.” Crowley shrugs. “Humans are generally more inclined to feel invested in you if you ask them a favour, rather than the other way around. Weird lot.” Taking a long sip of wine, the demon wriggles back in his deck chair. “Besides, she’s got an impressively steady hand. You should have seen the eyeliner she managed, yesterday. I might as well look good, out of the situation.”

“You always look good,” Aziraphale murmurs, before he has thought the words through.

Crowley’s eyes dart over, latching on to him.

The flush that had only just retreated down the angel’s neck, flares up again.

“I mean, when you do your own makeup.” He babbles, into the demon’s silence. “Or, when you wear none. Either way.” The angel looks back out over the water, pretending not to have noticed that he’s fallen apart in the middle of a perfectly reasonable sentence. Pretending this is just something they do. Two friends who sometimes tell one another they’re beautiful. “You always look dreadfully well put together, Crowley.”

“Uh… thanks.”

"Of course.”

The angel glances over. The corners of his friend’s mouth have pulled downwards, one eyebrow cocked, but it’s a pleased scowl, not a disgruntled one.

Aziraphale clears his throat and soldiers bravely on.

“So… um, with the pair of them holding the controlling interest in the company, I imagine they could cut their uncle out, if they were so inclined?”

“Or vote to dissolve it and sell the constituent parts,” Crowley agrees, still eyeing him curiously. “The company supplies three different governments with water pipelines and irrigation storage,” he elaborates, after a pause. “The countries they supply would buy them out in a heartbeat. It would turn a smaller profit than selling to their uncle and staying private, but it would reduce future involvement. It’s an opportunity for a new start. Matthieu is checking feasibility, as we speak.”

“Right.” The conversation had begun as a distraction from bikinis and nipples, but a question has been burning in the angel ever since talking with one of the young humans, that morning, and Aziraphale thinks now is probably the best time to pose it. “Crowley - can I ask something?”

“Yeah.”

“Correct me if I am wrong, but,” the angel hesitates. He is not sure how to voice this without restarting the argument they’d had, last week. “Returning power over local water supply to a local government, that seems like it would be rather against Hell’s directives?”

The demon’s eyes narrow, a line forming between his brows.

“Don’t do that, Aziraphale,” he mutters, eventually. “Don’t try and good-ify it.”

“I’m not!” The angel splutters, defensive. “I am just attempting to understand the motivations involved. And anyway, ‘good-ify’ isn’t a word.”

“No, it’s an angel thing.” Crowley shoots back. “It’s a thing you do. Listen-,” he rolls his eyes. “Hell don't give me directives on fall-out. They’re only interested in the uncle. The rest is my business. So, I prefer to net things out. It’s just easier, in the long run. No unexpected good deeds to account for. And no unexpected commendations from my side, either.”

“What do you mean ‘net out’?”

“Make sure what I do doesn’t cause major change in any one direction. Generally, I just try not to tank any major economies, draw attention from the opposition, or start any religious movements. Everything else is excusable.”

“But surely there will be fall out from this? Doesn’t dissolving a company mean a lot of people will lose their jobs?”

“Not really. Most of their workforce are local subcontractors.”

“But, surely, the shift of power in the region-,”

“Local control _may_ end up giving a population more stability and opportunities for growth,” the demon admits, rolling his eyes, “but it might just as easily lead to an upswing in local corruption. That’s the point; I might free masses from poverty, or I might trigger a coup. These things can’t be predicted.” He scowls. “You know all this, Aziraphale. You’ve played this game as long as I have.”

“Well, not exactly the same game,” the angel points out.

“Oh, really?” Crowley’s dark brows slide upwards. “All your blessings come out squeaky clean, do they?”

The angel purses his lips.

They don’t. He knows they don’t. He can remember countless blessings, over the years, which have fallen very differently than he had intended. He remembers the wars that Heaven had decreed, in the name of the greater good. He remembers motherless children, and famine, and plague. He remembers having tried, each time, to blame it on the opposition, but always coming back to the same, immutable truth. Nothing in this world was simple.

“I’m just trying to understand,” he sighs, feeling a little frustrated by the way the conversation has circled them immediately back around to a topic he feels less prepared for. “Why, of all the ways you could have ruined this target, you chose this?”

“Because anything personal will affect his wife and two kids, which is just…” the demon wrinkles his nose. “I don’t do kids, okay? And if that makes me ‘hardly a demon’-,”

“Crowley!”

His friend casts him a reproving look.

“I just prefer to do my job and leave it there, alright? Minimise collateral damage. This was the most elegant solution.”

“Elegant?”

“Job done with added potential for growth. Not good, not bad, just… human. I’m good at what I do, Aziraphale.”

The angel stares, not sure whether the tension in his lower abdomen is caused by the sublimation of desire, or by the discomfort of having this conversation. All he really wants to do is make amends and push it all aside. But these are things they need to talk about, he reminds himself. They cannot move on, pushing things away.

“You are,” he takes a slow breath. A few seconds pass. “You’ve always been good at what you do, Crowley. I just always tried not to think about the moral ambiguity of it all, before.”

“Yeah, well… that’s why you’re here, now, right?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale looks around them, at the sea and sun, the two humans paddling in a rock pool several hundred feet away. He can hear their laughter ringing out, across the afternoon. “It is.”

“What do you think, so far?” Crowley prompts, after a short silence.

Aziraphale bites his lip.

“I’m not sure what I can say,” he admits, softly, after a few moments. “You bite my head off when I even suggest you’re doing something nice, Crowley.”

“Only because you have historically used ‘nice’ as some way of mitigating what I am.”

Aziraphale sighs out, closes his eyes.

“I know… I’ve been terrible, at all of this, really.” He feels tightness pull at his throat. He wants to say ‘i’m sorry’, but he can remember Crowley’s words from yesterday. Crowley doesn’t want more sorries. “I think that you are doing a wonderful job at achieving your goal without harming these humans,” he settles on, eventually. “And I think you’re doing that not only because you enjoy the prestige of having worked a clean job, but because their fates matter to you. And I think that is very admirable. I think _you_ are very admirable.” He chances a look over, at the demon.

“And what do you think about the goal?”

Aziraphale tightens his lips.

“I think it is not so different to my own work, sometimes,” he offers, eventually. “An individual who could swing either way, being pushed to make a choice.”

Crowley does not react. His expression remains fixed somewhere north of hesitant.

“And I find it hard to rectify with what Heaven has told me, over the years,” Aziraphale adds.

“That good and evil are opposing forces?”

“That either can exist in isolation.”

“Mmh.” Crowley watches him for a long moment, then twists over his deckchair, to lie on one side. His spine curves at an improbable angle, something liquid and serpentine about it. Pushing a cheek against his towel, he watches Aziraphale intently. “New realisation?”

“Not entirely,” the angel admits. “But the context. The specifics of you versus I-,”

“Bit jarring, after six thousand years of ‘ _behind me, foul fiend_ ’.”

Aziraphale frowns. 

He deserves the jibe, so he accepts it without comment.

Crowley does not push, though. Just continues to lie, watching him. Then, sliding one leg under the other, he gives a little sigh and continues.

“Personally, I’ve always thought of what we do was like… pushing at two sides of the same thing.”

“You have?”

“Yeah.” The demon runs his teeth over his lip, curves his body in on itself so that his soft underside is protected against the wind that ruffles his hair. Aziraphale can see a perfect line across his belly, where he’s folded. That and the damp curls, forming across his forehead, are the only soft points on a body made of angles. “I don’t think I ever created evil any more than you ever created good, Aziraphale,” the demon tells him, gently, eyes deepest gold against the backdrop of the sea. “We just stir the pot a little. Nudge things one way, or the other.”

The angel lets his eyes trail down his friend’s cheeks, over the familiar dip of his chin.

“Is that not an overly simplistic a way of viewing it?”

“Dunno. Maybe.” The demon looks thoughtful, runs his lip between his teeth - perhaps sucking off the salt left behind by the sea. “But reducing the complexities of this world to a binary choice is a bit simplistic, too.”

“Perhaps…” the angel looks down.

“We both push humans to make choices,” Crowley continues, softly, after a moments’ pause. “There are different motives but, in the end, the choices are theirs. Sometimes, there is fall out, but we both do what we can. We work within our means, Aziraphale. I don’t lie awake agonising over that.” He swallows. “I’m not ashamed of what I am.”

Something tears sharply, inside the angel.

He shifts forwards in his seat, folding his hands together on front of him. He wants to cross the gap, to Crowley. He wants to slide his arms around the demon. He wants to run.

“My dear…” his throat is tight, suddenly raw. “I was never ashamed of you. Never. I...” He stares at his oldest friend, his best friend, whose eyes are full of fear but fixed bravely on his. The moment spirals, within him. Six thousand years, he thinks. Six thousand years and all the languages of humankind, and words have all abandoned him. “It’s quite the opposite,” he manages, eventually. “You make me feel ashamed of _myself_.”

The demon returns his gaze, steadily. Absurdly calmly. Absurdly still, for a creature who spends so much of his life fidgeting.

“Because something like you shouldn’t love something like me?”

“Crowley…”

The angel feels like he’s bottoming out in emotion, being dragged under, the current pulling him away from the surface.

He scrabbles against it, swallowing, wishing this was easier. Across from him, Crowley stays silent, watching as his cheeks burn, as his throat throbs. They don’t speak of love, Aziraphale thinks. They never have. This part of the conversation has always happened deep to the surface of them, before. He is not prepared for this. Nothing could have prepared him for this.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Crowley mutters, after nearly ten seconds have passed in silence. “It’s okay.”

“No, I-,”

“It’s okay. Really, I get it.”

“Dear boy, please listen…” It is so hard to get the words out, to meet Crowley’s eyes when he does it, but he must, Aziraphale realises. They are past the point where he can cling to the denial of silence. “It’s not that,” he breathes out, forcing his maddening heart to slow. “I’m not ashamed that something like me should… should love something like you.” He gives a shaky little exhale. “I don't believe that for an instant.” His ears are ringing, but he pushes on. “I’m ashamed because I believe rather the opposite, but I am still too afraid to do anything about it. I still worry so about how others see me.” He breathes shakily out. “I’ve spent so many years trying to live up to Heaven’s expectations, and I’m finding it hard to move on from that.”

Crowley is watching him with lips slightly parted.

“I know.”

“I wish I were braver,” Aziraphale whispers. “I truly do.”

“Aziraphale…”

Slowly, the demon pulls himself up, swivelling around on the deck chair to mirror Aziraphale’s position exactly, down to the positioning of his hands, between his knees. A narrow line has formed between the red-gold of his brows.

“Angel, you’re the bravest person I know,” he says, after a moment’s quiet. “But you _are_ indecisive and that scares the shit out of me. I don’t mind waiting. I really don’t. Two months, a year, a decade - I can do that. I’m patient. But… I do need to know what I’m waiting for.” He takes a measured breath and looks down at their knees, which are nearly kissing.

Miles adrift, inches apart.

“I chose this world because I want an earthy life,” Crowley says, quiet as a whisper but twice as harsh. “I want to try things, like humans do. I want a home and a family. And you’re my best friend. So, I want you to be a part of it all, but-,” he shifts slightly, “you’re not honest, about what you want, and that drives me mental.”

“I know.” He wants to say he’s sorry, but Crowley doesn’t need more of that. “I wish I was different.”

“I don’t want you to be different, you prat,” the demon growls. “You always take an eon to deal with change and you have baggage, but I get that. So do I. It’s fine. I just… need to know what you want that ’we’ to be. This goes both ways, you know?” He swallows, audibly. “We both have to choose each other. That’s what this is about,” he motions around them. “You, seeing all of me. The reality of what I am.” 

“I know.”

Aziraphale watches the sun playing over the high arches of his friend’s cheekbones. By the end the summer, Crowley’s skin will be burnished with freckles, he thinks. Little constellations imprinted on his skin. They reappear in the same pattens, every time. Aziraphale wonders if the demon knows that they match the stars he painted in the sky.

When did he learn that Crowley had helped hang the stars? Aziraphale wonders, breathing shakily out. Years ago. Centuries. Almost as long ago as they should have had this conversation.

The angel swallows, trying to stop the trembling in his fingers by pressing them together.

It feels as if they’ve been falling towards this moment for millennia.

“Do you really think…” he begins, voice breaking with the effort of it. “That we are part of the same plan?”

“Yes.”

Crowley’s answer is instantaneous, sure. The brazenness of it causes Aziraphale’s throat to tighten. He sits very still, for ten seconds, expecting something to happen - a lightning bolt to shoot down between them, or sound of divine trumpets, heralding punishment - but nothing comes.

The sun continues to beat down, the sea to surge gently.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” Crowley continues, eventually. “The details are beyond me, but the end goal must be the same, right? Otherwise, why would be have been allowed to stop Armageddon?” He shifts, leaning closer, holding a hand out - palm up. “I think… we’re meant to balance.”

Aziraphale feels warmth curl around his ribs - soft appreciation for the way Crowley had phrased it, for the acknowledgement that this is difficult for him to hear, for the offer of a hand, stretched across the miles and inches between them.

Slowly, he reaches out. His fingers curl first over a soft palm, then around knuckles on the other side. Thumbs slide around thumbs and stroke the backs of wrists. And then they’re sitting, holding hands, joined in one dimension and feeling the swooping presence of one another, in the next.

They’ve always been able to sense one another, Aziraphale thinks. In the beginning, the angel had assumed it was the opposition of their magic, rubbing one another up the wrong way. Then, he had thought it was a mark of how different they both felt, compared to the human world. Now, he thinks it is something altogether more pedestrian and wonderful. He thinks that, at some point, long ago, he’d willingly offered a part of himself over to Crowley and the demon had done the same, and that strand connects them.

It binds them together, just like the grip they are sharing in the physical dimension. A small point of contact, but with room to expand, should they choose. And that choice works both ways, the angel reminds himself. He has to choose Crowley, too.

Swallowing, he blinks down at their joined fingers, feeling tears wet his nearly-closed eyelashes. 

“Thank you,” he whispers. It’s a 'thank you’ for the days he’s been given, this week, to think - for the thousands of years that Crowley has already put in. A thank you for every bit of his beautiful, patient demon.

“You don’t need to thank me, you idiot.”

The words sound harsh but, when Aziraphale looks up, he finds Crowley wearing that pleased expression he wears when he’s done something right.

That is the feeling he wants to capture, the angel thinks. That is what he wants to capture and replay for his friend, over and over again. Crowley, happy and secure. Crowley, being told just how perfect and important he is.

“You aren’t going back,” he murmurs, more to himself than anything else.

“I’m not going back,” the demon confirms, rolling his eyes dramatically.

“You’re never going back.”

“Nope.”

“You’re staying here.”

“Indefinitely.”

“With me.”

“Yes.” Crowley blinks at him, then gives a whole body shrug of exasperation. “Here. With you.” He lets out a long sigh, regarding the angel with a mix of frustration, and need, and hope. “Our side. Our world.”

“Our world,” Aziraphale mirrors.

“Yeah. So, you know… When you figure out how you want to spend the next six thousand years, just let me know, okay?”

The moment is suddenly too much. Aziraphale crushes his eyes closed, sniffing back tears as he squeezes Crowleys’ hand.

The hand squeezes back.

“Bloody Hell, Angel… You’re going to have to stop blubbering on me.” His thumb slides forwards, into the groove between his knuckles, and rubs gently. The sensation sends a jolt of something like magic up the back of Aziraphale’s spine. “I’m an empathetic crier and my reputation is already in tatters…”

The angel lets out a little huff of laugher, looking up.

Crowley is watching him with eyes that are, admittedly, a little brighter than usual.

“There, see,” the demon’s golden irises are slid right across the width of his eyes. His pupils are dilated, despite the brightness of the sun. “Laughing. Much better.”

They hold one another’s gaze.

Aziraphale feels his mouth curl weakly into a smile.

“Crowley, I love you,” he mumbles, on impulse, feeling the words rip themselves free from where they’ve been lodged, for millennia. Somewhere in his chest, tucked against the bones of him. “I love you so very much.”

Crowley’s expression changes only minutely. Something flickers in his eyes, the pupils of them expanding ever so slightly. Then there’s a tautening in his lower lip, an extra line creasing his brow. He watches Aziraphale very steadily for ten seconds. And he takes a very rough breath in and looks down.

“Love you too, angel.” His thumb rubs over Aziraphale’s knuckles again, cushioning the slight fear that shoots through the angel, at those words not having solved everything in one sweeping moment. “Always will, alright?”

“Yes.”

They sit for a long time, like that, fingers curled under fingers, thumbs stroking at the sides of thumbs, and palms, and wrists. The contact is gentle and incredibly intense. The awareness that Aziraphale has always felt, around his friend, seems to keep opening around him, every breath pulling them deeper into one another.

He is only dimly conscious of the rest of the scene, playing out around them; that the young human couple have jumped back into the water and are splashing around. In the moments between their bouts of noise, he can hear the distant sound of Matthieu, talking on the phone to his lawyers, putting Crowley’s well laid plans into motion.

His friend is so clever, the angel thinks, bursting with pride. (Fearing the emotion but committing to it anyway, because this pride is not about him and it is accompanied by so much love that it must be okay). He’s so proud of Crowley for getting them this far. He knows that he will need to give more, soon. There had been a hesitation to the way Crowley had replied to his confession and the angel knows that he is going to have to be a lot more explicit, about what he wants. But that can wait, it seems.

Crowley grips onto him a little tighter, nudging the tip of a finger between two of Aziraphale’s own - demanding in that gentle way he always is. Pushy, demanding, soft demon. Brilliant, and clever, and patient, and kind. I love you so much, Aziraphale thinks, looking up at his friend again. How can I have gone this long without saying that out loud?

.

.

The rest of the day sort of filters past, without leaving much impact. The humans return to the boat, eventually, and the demon and the angel have to release one another, to help steer it back to shore. They moor it in the harbour and slip off into the city, to seek out food, finding a place halfway up the surrounding hills with a large patio and a deal on endless sangria, and they all get uproariously drunk as the sun slowly lowers through the sky.

There is rather a lot of laughter, and Aziraphale sees the siblings talking quietly, a few times, when Crowley has Jacob otherwise occupied. The angel tries not to interfere, watching it all play out from a distance. He watches his friend with pride and love, and tries to swallow back the illicit thrill of looking around to find Crowley watching him back.

Around seven, the young human couple decide to get a car back to their hotel and Crowley suggests that Aziraphale share the taxi with them. He has a bit more work to do, with Matthieu, before the humans are ready to continue on without him. Just one more conversation, he tells Aziraphale, as they stand by the road on front of the restaurant. One more conversation and then all they have to do is watch it play out, tomorrow.

Hands folded behind him, Aziraphale stares up at the demon and wonders if it would be acceptable to ask Crowley back for a nightcap, once he’s finished.

He can almost hear the conversation, in his mind.

_‘It’ll be late.’_

_‘That’s fine, I’ll be up.’_

_‘Think I blew through my mini bar on the first night.’_

_‘We can drink in my room.’_

_‘What does this mean, angel?’_

And that is the point where Aziraphale’s mind blanks. Because there are a multitude of possibilities to inviting Crowley back to his hotel room, and he is fairly sure he is ready for all of them - but the demon is going to require a bit more specificity, about what they are, first, and Aziraphale is still not sure he has those words ready, yet.

He can feel them, growing, but he’s not sure how to put it all together. And Crowley deserves it together. He deserves surety. A confession of love is important. It is lovely. But there is more to choosing a life together than love. They, more than most, they are not blind to that fact.

“Breakfast, tomorrow?” He asks instead, then.

Crowley nods. He’s got a neat line of kohl around his eyes and it makes them appear more vibrant than ever. In the half dark, they shine almost iridescent.

“Sounds good. Call through to my room, when you’re ready?”

“I’ll call,” the angel assures. “Or, I could just knock,” he smiles, despite the nerves fluttering through him. “You are only next door, after all.”

“Guess I am.”

“Mm.”

They watch one another carefully. Then, Aziraphale feels an impulse rising up within him which realises he does not have to quash. It’s okay, he thinks, taking a half step in, towards Crowley, and tilting his chin back. This is okay.

Carefully, very softly - giving his friend plenty of time to move away, or tell him to stop - he leans in and presses a kiss to the demon’s cheek.

The sensation is new, and unexpected, and wonderful. Crowley is surprisingly soft, and tastes faintly of the powder marking his cheekbones. Up close, Aziraphale can see a scattering of salt still clinging to the demon’s neck, just under the ear - where he’d washed the sea free from his face, but not bothered with the rest of him.

For a moment, he gets the overpowering urge to slide his face into the crook of his neck and kiss him there, too - to snap them away, somewhere private, where he could trace his mouth over the rest of Crowley and make his friend cling, and gasp, and blow his pupils out wide. But they both have words to say, before that. So, he rocks back on his heels, instead.

“Thank you, for today,” he tells his friend, softly.

Crowley gives the tiniest of nods.

“Sssure.”

There is too much hiss in his words to be human. There is too much love in his eyes to be anything other than of this world. They are becoming something new, the angel thinks, staring up at him. Something mixed, both the mortal and divine. And a pair. Whatever else they are, they are a pair.

“Goodnight, Crowley,” he tells his friend, softly.

“Night, angel.”

Golden eyes follow him across to the waiting car and watch him climb in, after the humans. Though Mariam and Jacob exchange knowing looks, as Aziraphale gets in, neither of them say anything. The angel hears Matthieu make some comment to the demon, though, as the three of them pull away. His efforts earn him a ‘shut up’, and a cuff around the ear. Aziraphale smiles about it, all the way back down to the hotel.

.

Crawling into his bed, some twenty minutes later, the angel slides a hand down the front of his chest, trying to imagine what it would be like to have Crowley’s hand follow that same path. Because they can touch, now, he reminds himself, dazedly. Because his best friend loves him and wants a life with him. Wants an Earthly life. Wants to touch and share.

The angel lies awake for a long time, trying to find the right words, to explain what he wants, in return. But, in the end, the physical provides too much of a distraction.

Sliding his hand down between his legs, he lets his head drop back against the pillows and pictures the long line of Crowley’s belly above that ridiculous scrap of fabric the demon had called swimwear. He pictures the way the water had beaded across his friend’s skin, and the way his nipples had pulled in tight. He imagines pressing his lips into the shadow of Crowley’s hips. He imagines lapping his tongue against the crease of the demon’s thigh, feeling the warm pulse of him, tasting sea salt.

Breathing a little harder, he traces his hand down himself as he imagines tracing his tongue, between his friend’s legs. Softly, at first. Then harder, harder, making Crowley hiss - that little half-strangled noise he makes, when he’s really enjoying something - that noise that Aziraphale has only heard a handful of times, in real life, but has crawled through his daydreams more times than he can count. He imagines his friend squirming and shuddering against him as he fists his own hand around himself. Then, all of a sudden, he’s spilling across his belly, undone in less than a minute by the Crowley in his mind.

Lying awake in the dark, in the afterglow, Aziraphale stares at the ceiling and waits for shame to creep over him, as it always has done before, but nothing comes. He feels a multitude of things - embarrassed at the intensity of his own need, a bit silly for the details he has chosen to fantasise about, a bit worried that Crowley will be able to sense his desire, across the space between them - but he does not feel shame.

And it is not because anything has changed, he realises, slowly. His friend is still his friend - still the careful, patient demon he’s been for six thousand years. And Aziraphale is still himself, too. They are what they were always meant to be, the angel thinks, as his heart rate begins to return to normal. He is still tied up in a thousand little hesitations, and unsure of what the future holds, and worried about their place in the great plan. He is still afraid. But he doesn’t feel alone, anymore.

Letting a slow breath out, Aziraphale presses his hand against the skin of his belly, feeling the strange feedback loop of mind, and body, and soul; feeling sensation and interpretation and emotion cycle over one another, making him what he is.

He had tried, for years, to belong to Heaven. He had done his best, but he had never felt a part of that world. He does feel a part of this one. This is his home, he thinks. This is his world, which he was made to protect. This is his body, which was made to carry him through it. And Crowley is a part of this world, too. He is invested in it. They are both going to stay, and navigate this uncertain future, together. The outcomes are not certain, but that knowledge makes Aziraphale feel safe in a way he has never felt, before. He feels as if he is part of a team. He feels as if he might just belong to something.

After lying there for some time, the angel cleans himself up and arranges himself amongst his sheets. He flips through a book for a short while, but cannot settle to it and, eventually, gives it up as a bad job. Turning the light off and closing his eyes, he reaches out, feeling for the demon’s magic. The traces lingering in the next hotel room are enough to help him relax and he drifts off to sleep, for the second time in as many nights.

He dreams of Crowley. Because he always does.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me lurking on [IG](https://www.instagram.com/heycaricari/), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/heycaricari), and [Tumblr](https://heycaricari.tumblr.com/) @heycaricari
> 
> Find AJ on IG [@theeyjayy](https://www.instagram.com/theeyjayy/)


	7. Crowley

.

The demon wakes pressed against the headboard like some sort of pathetic, angel-seeking missile. His neck is aching from the lack of pillows. His back is arched, in order to get a hip, a cheek, and a foot up against the shared wall of their hotel rooms.

It is ridiculous, he thinks, as he comes back to reality and begins to unwind himself. It’s downright obsessive. Aziraphale would shy away, to see the depths of his depravity. It’s somehow even worse than the surreptitious wank he’d had had in the shower, yesterday morning, while listening to the distant sounds of the angel getting ready.

He needs to get a bit of control over himself, Crowley thinks, shuffling down the bed to face the right way around. He needs to calm down, play it cool. The problem is, he’s just spent so long working up to this point and repressing all of the emotions involved that, now he’s allowing some of them out, the rest are trying to follow, through the flood gates.

He is drowning in a mix of lust and love and longing - all of which are fighting with the denial and self loathing that he’s been using to subdue them, for the past few thousand years. He is the physical externalisation of every repressive trope, Crowley thinks. He is a demon in love with an angel, and it feels right, but there is also a lot of baggage. Their respective people (he hesitates to use ‘family’, though he supposes that is the best Earthly equivalent) are at war and the idea of the pair of them standing together, out in the open, feels wildly illicit. Touch feels even more so; a bridge between them on the very stage that they should be most separate. And sex… sex feels downright absurd.

Six thousand years of conditioning is hard to shake.

Giving a little groan, the demon rolls over and gives an exploratory thrust against the bunched up duvet. The best bit of this whole mindfuck is that the angel worth it, he thinks. Unequivocally, Aziraphale is worth it. Every horrid, conflicted, messy bit of it. He’s a clever, ridiculous, beautiful bastard and Crowley would rather spend the rest of eternity being wound up by him than literally anything else in the universe.

Sighing his frustration out, the demon gives another little wriggle against the mattress. The sensation sends a warm rush up his spine. He could quite happily spend the rest of the morning in bed, ruminating over what the future might hold for him and his best friend. It’s a much more enticing prospect than getting up and washed, and dressed, and dealing with the onslaught of humanity that the day promises to be. Probably best to err on the side of caution, though.

Aziraphale had mentioned calling by, to pick him up for breakfast, and the angel has a habit of knocking and entering, rather than knocking and waiting at doors. Crowley is not sure that their fledgling… _whatever this is_ , could survive his friend wandering in and finding him with one handful of fingers in his mouth and the other in his ass, and his cock shoved god knows where. There was only so much a nervous angel could be expected to deal with, right out the gates.

Giving a small groan, Crowley rolls over onto his back and stares up at a patch on the ceiling, in the corner of the room, where the paint is peeling away.

“I’m going to do very filthy things to him,” he says, out loud, to Whomever may or may not be listening. “Mark my words.”

As usual, there is no Reply.

“Ngk.”

Dragging himself out of bed, Crowley slouches over to the bathroom and starts getting on with his day. Glaring his morning erection into submission, he climbs into the shower and washes yesterday from his body, feeling his skin come up smoother and cleaner. There will be salt in his bed from the sea he thinks, rubbing hands soothingly through his hair, but the hotel staff will change it for him, later.

There is something nice about the routine of the sheets changing. Maybe he’ll start doing that at home, the thinks, watching soap suds slide over his body and curl down the drain. He usually just expects his bedclothes to stay clean, by magic, but perhaps he’ll try switching it up, now and again. They feel nice, against his skin, when they’ve been cleaned the manual way.

(And he does own a washing machine, after all. He had been impressed by an advert on the telly, just the other month - a machine which had an extra little door in the front of it, for adding forgotten socks. He had not owned socks, at the time, but he liked the idea. So, he had ordered one immediately and it had appeared the same day. It has never been used. He wonders whether it needs to be plugged into anything).

Rinsing and drying himself, the demon pads around the room, finding discarded clothing from the day before and a few other pieces, which had appeared because he needed them. He slides into his usual pair of jeans, boots, and a silvery floaty top thing that will show off a bit of rib, from the side. He wonders if Aziraphale has ever fantasised about his chest. The angel had blushed awfully, when he’d mentioned nipples, yesterday.

As if drawn into being, by the very thought, Crowley hears the angel’s room door open and close, nearby. Then, a dozen footsteps and a knock.

“Yeah?”

He waves a hand to lift the wards around the room - though there is no real need. The protective spells that the demon lays around things, to keep any occult and ethereal forces at bay, have never worked against Aziraphale. (It is something neither of them have ever addressed, directly). Even his magic wants the angel inside, the demon thinks, as his friend pushes his way into the room without waiting for permission.

“Good morning.”

The angel is bright eyed and wearing a pale blue shirt. No tie again, Crowley thinks, eyes catching in the little dip below Aziraphale’s Adam’s apple. He has a grey cardigan on and different trousers to the day before, and Crowley can’t get over how soft he is able to look, even at a distance. Cashmere and cotton, and warm, light colours. He looks like the softness of the luxurious hotel bedding. Crowley wants to curl up in him and dissolve.

He settles for pulling a face.

“What? No hat?”

The corner of Aziraphale’s mouth twitches.

“No hat,” he dips his head, apologetically. “I thought I’d pace myself, today. Wouldn’t do to show you up at every occasion.”

“Bollocks,” the demon grumbles. “I’m the height of fashion.”

The angel grins.

_He loves him. Fucking loves him._

Reaching behind himself, Crowley manages to grab a pair of sunglasses that are sitting on the bedside table, and shove them onto his face.

“So, uh… you still planning to come along to the memorial service, later?” He asks, swaggering over, trying not to think about the last time they were standing this close, when Aziraphale had stepped in and leant up, to press the softest of kisses against his cheek. “You’ll need something black. Human mourning traditions and all.”

“I have something appropriate.”

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you in black.”

“Oh, you have. Once or twice.”

The angel stares up at him, only a foot away, now.

There have been one or two times, the demon muses, looking down at him. There have been one or two occasions attended in black tie. There have been one or two time periods where they’ve had to masquerade as clerics, in black robes. There have been one or two temptations, passed on, where Aziraphale has wrapped himself in Crowley’s colours and the demon has regretted not being able to hang around and watch.

Because he likes the idea of Aziraphale in his colours. He likes the idea of throwing a coat over the angel, in the rain, someday, to keep him dry. Of offering out a dark scarf, in winter, to keep him warm. He likes the idea of them coexisting, somewhere - of him seeking the angel out, wherever he’s holed up for the afternoon, working, to bring him a cup of tea. He likes the image of being wrapped in one of Aziraphale’s baggy jumpers, the wool oversized on his narrow frame, padding about the place. He likes the idea of sharing. It’s all very un-demonic. It’s rather disgusting, really.

“Breakfast?” He asks his friend, quirking an eyebrow.

Aziraphale blinks, coming back from a similar dream-like state. He shoots the demon a wide smile.

“Yes. Let’s.”

.

Breakfast passes in that strange, slow-fast way of waiting for something. Crowley and Aziraphale share a tray of pastries and fruit, on the hotel restaurant veranda, watching the small boats pull in and out of the harbour.

Chin back in the sun, the demon runs through his plans for the afternoon - through how he wants to lead the humans together. When the moment comes, he explains, he doesn’t want to be involved directly. It is best they come to their conclusion under their own steam. The decision carries more weight, that way.

Aziraphale asks if he is worried about any of it and Crowley blusters out a ‘not really’ - though, in truth, he is not a hundred percent sure that the young woman, Mariam, is ready for the decision he needs her to make. There is a small chance that her brother suggesting they do something to ‘move on’ from their past will be taken as abandonment, and that is one of her integral fears. But there is not much more Crowley can do. He has offered direction and pushed, in the right places. He has done as much bonding as can feasibly be done between their two defined characters. He cannot offer the fatherly comfort that Mariam is seeking, right now. He has to hope that she can get past this last hurdle on her own.

.

The rest of the morning slides away far too fast. No sooner has the demon finished making calls to the various humans involved in proceedings, than Aziraphale is appearing at his shoulder, to ask if they should be setting off. Snapping himself into a suit, inside the Bentley, Crowley picks up Aziraphale and the young human couple, at the front of the hotel, and drives them through the city towards the service.

Mariam is quiet on the journey, though Jacob holds up a gentle stream of chatter. They arrive on a hilltop, some miles outside the town, about twenty minutes ahead of schedule and find Matthieu already waiting for them, standing at the end of a narrow switchback road, staring out into the sky.

It is a beautiful place. Up in the hills, the city is nearly invisible, just a few rooftops and snatches of glittering glass on view. The sea beyond the harbour is wide and spread out in all horizons, under a few-shades-lighter sky. If you squint, you can see the occasional boat. It was where their father had asked their mother to marry him, Matthieu explains, when Crowley asks why they have chosen to have the service here. It is the place he had been happiest.

.

The angel and the demon hang back, once the rest of the guests arrive. There is something inherently human about funerals that always makes Crowley feel out of place.

It probably comes back around to the fleeting nature of mortal lifespans, he thinks, standing with the angel at the rear of the small gathering. Eighty years is barely a blink, compared to the great cycles of the world - compared to patterns of weather, and plagues, and famines. It is such a short time. It would be easy to submit to the pointlessness of it. Yet, there has always been this furious intensity to how humans approach their own impermanence that has left Crowley feeling ashamed of his own lack of commitment.

Instead of submitting, humanity spends its eighty years kicking against the laws that bind it. Their actions are not always selfless or noble - in fact, most of the time, they are selfish and vain - but they prove themselves, time and time again, capable of great compassion and enormous sacrifice. Even in the worst circumstances, even in the darkest times that Crowley has witnessed, humanity has been able to find beauty in the world. And even their worst actions, are often committed out of some twisted interpretation of love.

Standing in the windswept sunshine, Crowley remembers the first humans born of this world. He remembers the children of Adam and Eve, whose bodies eventually came to an end and released their souls to the Earth. He remembers the strange finality of the situation - the way their families had gathered around their graves, to mourn for them, to celebrate them.

The ritual of goodbye holds new meaning to him, now. He had thought himself and Aziraphale separated in such a way, forever, just earlier this year. He had thought his friend discorporated, at ending of the world. He had thought that he would be destroyed along with the rest of his brethren, in fire and flame, without getting to say goodbye - and he had fallen apart.

Up until that day, Crowley had subliminally assumed a permanence to his being that he now knows is false. Even immortality cannot guarantee them forever. A time may come, he thinks, when he and Aziraphale face a reckoning for their actions - when Heaven and Hell seek vengeance for disrupting their plans. Crowley hopes that such time is far off and that they will be able to outsmart their old masters again, when it comes, but he cannot assume. He cannot waste the time he has left.

He cannot take any of it for granted, the demon thinks, watching the two siblings move to the front of the small crowd of gathered humans - watching them share in a short speech and the distribution of their father’s ashes. Eighty years, or Eighty centuries, he wants to spend it well. And if his and Aziraphale’s souls are destined to be banished from this earth, some day in the distant future, then he wants them to be bound tightly together when they are. He is done with being alone.

.

After the service, Aziraphale comes to find him, a few minutes’ walk up the hill. Jacob has led most of the humans back into town, for the wake. Mariam and Matthieu have walked a little way down the road on foot, chatting quietly.

It’s the fruition of a week’s hard work, Crowley thinks, as he watches them disappear from sight. They are talking, agreeing, yet the demon does not feel fully satisfied. There is intention burning beneath his surface that comes to a boil, as Aziraphale approaches over the dusty ground.

“That went about as well as a funeral can go, I think,” the angel smiles, coming to sit beside him on a rock.

Crowley watches him, feeling the tension in his abdomen double with proximity.

Aziraphale is incongruous in black - clean cut and handsome - strikingly different to how he normally looks and, somehow, still the same. And Crowley wants to kiss him. He wants to wrap his hands around the back of that head, fingertips pushing into thick curls of hair, and kiss him - reassure himself that they are still here, and alive, and together. He wants the fullness of that lower lip against his. He wants the divot in the upper one brushing against his cheek. He wants it more than he’s wanted anything in centuries.

“What were you saying to Mariam, at the end?” He asks, instead.

Aziraphale casts him a somewhat guilty look.

“The smallest of nudges. I hope you don’t mind?”

Crowley shakes his head. He had noticed the angel talking to the young woman and giving her short hug, at the end of the service. The thing had the taste of a miracle about it - the briefest sensation of electricity and petrichor - but Crowley is not annoyed with the interference. That is not why he brought it up.

“Just curious,” he shrugs.

“Well, she was afraid,” Aziraphale explains.

“Of selling the company?”

“Of moving on and losing the only family she has left.” They watch one another, the parallels of their situation not lost. The angel worries at his lower lip, for a moment, then continues. “I thought she could do with a bit of comfort. So, I told her that moving on does not mean forgetting the past. That letting go does not preclude building something new.”

The words twist inside the demon, a bit.

“Damn, angel.”

“Well, it’s easier to be introspective, when it’s someone else’s story. The stakes are lower.”

The fringe of his lashes catch the sunlight like spun gold. Crowley wants to trace his finger along the delicate curve of them.

“I reckon she’ll go for it, you know,” he murmurs, after a few moments of silence. “Selling up. Moving on.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah. Think you might have helped, with that.”

“Dear boy, it’s the least I could do, after tagging along all weekend.”

“Nah, you’ve been great.” The compliment is soft and meant, and received as such. Aziraphale’s expression softens, a smile plumping his cheeks. “I’ll keep an eye on them, over the next few days,” Crowley continues, “but I think our work here is done.”

“And time will go on.”

“Yes.”

“And they’ll forget about you.”

“Mm.”

The angel sighs.

“You know, I don’t know why, but that bit always leaves me feeling a little sad.”

It makes Crowley feel a little sad, too, but only in one very specific way. The rest of him finds the reality of what they do incredibly beautiful. The fact that they will pass from this place and be forgotten, but their magic will live on. How many creatures of this world were allowed such a thing? How many souls had held futures in their hands, like he and Aziraphale?

“I told you I loved you, yesterday,” he mumbles, on impulse, looking around at his friend.

The angel blinks, looking up. There is surprise in his eyes, but no panic. No fear.

“Yes,” he says, after a pause. “You did.”

“It feels weird,”

“I think… it feels right.”

“Yeah?”

Aziraphale nods.

“I told you that I loved you, too.”

“Yeah, you did. Soppy prat that you are.” Crowley looks away, berating himself for not managing the conversation without sarcasm. Then, he remembers that it’s just Aziraphale, and that Aziraphale knows him. Knows what he means by it. Knows the ins and outs of him, the taste of his magic. He glances back around at his friend, a little shyly. “Suppose neither of us should go casting stones, on that account.”

The angel’s mouth quirks up, at the corner. He looks calmer than Crowley could have ever anticipated, from this moment.

A few seconds pass, then;

“Crowley, when we first talked, at the hotel, you said that you needed me to be a lot more explicit, about what I wanted from you. And I said I needed a few days.”

“Mm?” The demon’s chest is suddenly very tight. His skin feels oddly tingly.

“Well, I think I have an answer for you, now, if you want it?”

Crowley stares.

He cannot quantify, in words or numbers, how much he wants it. He wants it with an ache that is beyond the physical.

“Yeah, go on,” he finally manages, voice strained.

“I suppose,” Aziraphale starts, hesitantly, “what I want to be is a pair of… of whatever we are.” He shoots Crowley a covert look. “I don’t think either of us is the same as when were were put on this Earth. And by that I mean that I am still an angel and you are still a demon, but I think we are also more, now, by dint of time - and by choice. And I think that is okay,” he clarifies, looking hearted when Crowley does not immediately disagree with him. “I think that’s, perhaps, what we were meant to become, all along. That we were meant to balance.”

Crowley swallows, feeling a rush of pleasure at his own words being repeated back to him, with interest. With love.

“Me too,” he mutters, softly.

The angel smiles.

“Well. I suppose, then, considering that…” he takes a slow breath. “What I want, moving forwards, is to continue sharing this world with you. But, perhaps… to share more in one another, as well. Beyond this dimension, on a level of souls, but also…” he falters, picks himself up. “But also here on Earth… as a mate.”

“Like… a teammate?” Crowley asks, very tense. “A friend?”

“No. Like Adam was, to Eve. Like Mariam is, to Jacob.”

“Oh.” The demon lets out a breath he had not realised he was holding. “Right…” his heartbeat is hammering away in the side of his neck. His ears are ringing, slightly. He presses into his magic, trying to damp the reaction down, but to no avail. All it does is leave his fingers shaking slightly.

Beside him, Aziraphale looks equally skittish, but also very soft and very sincere.

“I’ve always watched the way that humans share their lives with admiration,” the angel admits. “They gain great comfort from one another. I think, if their bond is strong and there is trust, it allows them to be stronger, in themselves. To grow. That is something I want, for us.”

“Oh.”

“And I realise that an Earthly partnership comes with implications…”

“Implications?”

“You know… physical implications.”

“Eh?”

“Things we might… want to do… with our bodies.”

“What?” The demon frowns. “Sex?”

Aziraphale does a little double blink and purses his lips. And, oddly, the familiarity of the little expression breaks the tension, for Crowley. All of the anxiety that had been building, since the angel had sat down beside him, is swallowed up in a rising tide of love. Because it’s just his friend, he thinks. It’s his best friend, sitting beside him, being a bit dramatic, and brilliant, and a bit ridiculous. It’s _Aziraphale_.

“Why do you do that?” he asks the angel, with a soft laugh. “The weird repressive bit. You don’t need to. There are lots of things we can do, together. Sex is just one of them, isn't it? S’not a big deal.” This, of course, is a lie. Sex is a big deal. Sex is the difference between them being mates in one way and them being mates in another. It’s a huge deal, in terms of detail. Crowley is just trying to say that it is not the be all and end all. “S’just a way of expressing stuff,” he elaborates, remembering to mention this. “Don’t have to be a thing.”

“I just…” Aziraphale stares at him, very pink in the cheeks. Then, when Crowley continues to watch him openly, gives a hearty eye roll - clearly aimed at himself. “Oh, I don't know, Crowley. I suppose it's just very human.”

“Very human?” The demon lets out a bark of laughter. “Aziraphale, you’ve been practically human for six thousand years! You get your hair cut at a human barber’s. You go out for handmade sushi and make tea with a kettle, and milk that comes from an actual cow. You use…” Crowley gesticulates wildly, “pens with physical ink in them, that make a mess, and run out, and have to be replaced. You pay taxes. You once drove for three hours to try an artisan donut!”

“You once drove for three hours for me to try an artisan donut,” the angel corrects.

“I’m not denying that I am also a twat,” the demon laughs. “I just-,”

He stares over at his friend, whose soft eyes have lifted to rest on him, fondly. His best friend, who is interested in sharing in this world, who might be interested in sharing his body. And isn’t that a thought? Wouldn’t that be a thing, Crowley thinks. It is not the be all and end all, but it would be nice. It would be more than nice, actually - and he is almost sure that Aziraphale thinks so too - but he does need to clarify. Either way.

“There is a physical side of all of this, for me,” he admits, to the angel, forcing the words out as his cheeks begin to flush. “Touch is something I’d want, from a partner… but it doesn’t have to be sex. Not unless that was something you want, too.”

They watch one another a long few moments.

Come on, angel, Crowley thinks. Level with me. Tell me the truth. Be brutally honest, because I can’t deal with you hedging your bets, here. I can’t deal with waiting around, for the other shoe to drop.

“It is,” Aziraphale answers, eventually, very softly.

Relief floods through the demon.

“Oh.” Crowley stares. His brain stalls, then grinds slowly back into motion. _Okay. Come on, Crowley. Let’s keep this moving. Buck up._ He gives his head a little shake. “Right,” he tries again. “Okay.”

“Is that… something you’d want, with me?”

The demon exhales heavily, letting out a half-strangled noise. It sounds desperate and he cannot help but cringe, upon hearing it. He’s ridiculous, he thinks. They’re ridiculous. And, suddenly, he finds his lips curling into an embarrassed grin and he’s laughing, again. And Aziraphale is laughing too. And the moment breaks.

It is no longer strained or awkward. It’s just them. It feels safe.

“Yes,” Crowley eventually manages, after half a minute. “That’s... something I’d be into.” He pulls a face. “Fuck, you’re right. It is weird, isn’t it? It shouldn’t be weird. S'just bodies.”

“It’s not ‘just’ bodies,” the angel answers, pushing his knee very gently into the side of Crowley’s - a move which is comforting and exhilarating, all at once. “It’s us. And we’ve spent our lives being told that what happens on this plane only matters if it impacts a higher one,” the angel elaborates. “I think that’s what makes it hard to justify.”

Crowley presses gently back, looking up at his friend.

“I’ve spent a lot of time justifying it, to be honest,” he admits.

“Yes. So have I.”

A long minute passes.

“So, you want a mate.” Crowley exhales heavily, managing to swallow back the desire to slither off into the undergrowth and recover some form of aloof mystique. “And sex.” He swallows. “What else?”

Aziraphale eyes him, shyly.

“I’d like to have somewhere that’s both of ours, where we could spend time.”

“Okay,” the demon nods, turning his head to squint out, at the distant sea. “That’s do-able.” He can dimly remember investing heavily in property, in the nineties, as part of a scheme to mess with the housing market. He's sure at least one of those must be still kicking around. “What else?”

"I don’t want to lose you, as a friend.”

The words catch Crowley by surprise. It hadn't ever occurred to him - anywhere along the way from adversary, to longing, to intimacy - that he should ever have to lose one position to gain another. He’s always thought of their relationship in strictly summative terms. But Aziraphale may see it differently, he realises. This is something Aziraphale may have been worried about for some time.

“Nah,” he answers, firmly, wanting the angel to feel safe in this, at least. “That is never going to happen, alright?” Parts of ‘them’ will change, over time, but what makes them good together will remain. With a bit of effort, and more than a bit of patience, Crowley will make sure of it. “You’re still my best friend,” he assures the angel. “Always will be.”

Aziraphale’s fingers twitch.

Glancing down, Crowley realises that his friend had wanted to reach out but stopped himself. Feeling a rush of nerves, but nonetheless committed, he turns his own palm over and offers it out. Aziraphale’s eyes flicker between his fingers and his face and then, slowly, reaches out and takes it.

They hold onto one another, fingers tracing fingers, a soft repetition of their grip the previous day - and all the times they have touched, throughout history. The sensation of their magic brushing up against one another intensifies, then soothes into a low burn; all they could hope for, once. Now, not nearly enough.

“Anything else?” Crowley asks his friend, squeezing gently.

Aziraphale looks up at him, a sudden intensity about his gaze that speaks of action. The demon feels his insides perform an unfamiliar manoeuvre which seems to involve a backflip and an intermediate stage of turning into jelly.

“I’d rather like to kiss you.”

“Yeah?”

They are only a few inches away, the demon thinks, eyes darting immediately down to the angel’s mouth. It’s really very close.

“Yes. I’ve wanted to kiss you for a very long time.”

“Have you, now…”

Aziraphale smiles, slightly.

“May I kiss you?”

“Mnh-,” Crowley opens and closes his mouth a few times, trying and failing to tear his eyes away from his friend’s lips. “Nnn’yeah, alright… Go on, then,” he breathes out, eventually, voice soft and tight, and barely his own. “Might as well. Kind of where I thought this was heading...”

“You sound very convinced,” Aziraphale replies, just a hint of bastardry in his voice.

“Shut up…”

The hand around Crowley’s tightens, infinitesimally. Then, the angel’s other hand is lifting up, fingers brushing against Crowley's cheek, thumb pressing into the front of his chin. And Aziraphale is guiding him closer, gently down, pressing forwards. And the side of the demon’s nose is brushing the angel’s and the negative spaces of them are swallowed up by one another.

And they are kissing. And the world does not end.

They kiss while the wind picks up around them, stirring clouds that will not hit until later that night. They kiss softly, mouths brushing, and lifting, and pressing again. They kiss harder, lips parting, and tongues venturing out to meet. Their gazes catch, during slightly awkward readjustments, but hesitations do not last and they fall together again. Over and over.

Their hands remain clasped the whole time. And when Crowley eventually pulls away, feeling a little close to an emotional breakdown, Aziraphale leans in, to rest his face in the crook of the demon’s neck. And they sit like that for a long time, leaning against one another, just watching the sea.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me lurking on [IG](https://www.instagram.com/heycaricari/), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/heycaricari), and [Tumblr](https://heycaricari.tumblr.com/) @heycaricari


	8. Aziraphale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe i'm nearly at the end of this behemoth - only two chapters left to go!! Thank you for all your lovely comments so far. 
> 
> Mention of gambling and alcohol use in this chapter. 
> 
> .

.

There is an unreality to the way the evening falls. The blue skies of the early morning have given way to clusters of clouds, by mid afternoon. By the time the wake is finished, and the humans are drifting their separate ways, the western horizon is threatening rain and the humidity is becoming oppressive.

It stirs something in the humans, Aziraphale thinks, weather like this. If he concentrates, the angel can feel the electricity in the air, prickling his skin. Creatures made strictly for this dimension must be able feel it even more strongly, he thinks. Perhaps, that is why there is an excitement in them. Or, perhaps, it is just the circumstances of the day - the loss and renewal of death. Or, perhaps, it is a side effect of the tension that has been growing between him and Crowley all afternoon.

The angel and demon have spent most of the day circling one another. It has been a singularly strange experience, Aziraphale thinks - to be wandering among the gathered mourners and look up, to find his friend watching. It had been even more thrilling to have Crowley hold the gaze, after discovery. It feels like validation of all the times that the angel had felt a tug on the bond between them and looked up, only to see the demon’s eyes focussed elsewhere. It feels like a promise of a future.

Aziraphale is sure that their anticipation has been spilling over, into the humans, all afternoon. It is strong magic. Old magic. The sort of magic that the Earth is made of. The angel is not surprised that, as the hours pass, sombre faces begin to soften - spirits rising as the sun dips towards the horizon. Humans have always responded to death with life. The presence of the angel and the demon, today, have only enhanced it.

As the funeral guests depart, Crowley’s little trio of humans begin to tell stories and jokes. Jacob decides it is a travesty that Aziraphale has been in town for days, but not visited the casino, and proposes they make an evening of it - one last bash, before they all go their separate ways. Crowley informs them all that the angel has been banned in multiple locales, for cheating at cards, and it would probably be a terrible idea. But the assembled throng are overjoyed by this prospect.

Aziraphale, of course, has never cheated at cards. He is actually just that lucky. He is an angel, after all. Of course, he cannot use this fact to protest his innocence. So, he blushes and equivocates, instead. And Crowley watches with the sort of unshielded glee Aziraphale has not seen the demon wear in centuries. Because Crowley _does_ cheat at cards, and he knows that Aziraphale doesn’t - and this fact fills him with joy. And he is allowed to show it, now, thinks Aziraphale.

The pair of them are allowed in-jokes and shared stories, now. They are allowed to tease one another and bask in secret knowledge. Because they belong to one another, Aziraphale thinks. The connection between them is somehow stronger than it had been, just a few hours previous. It is as if their conversation, up on the hillside, has wrought some metaphysical change in them.

It is nothing final or irreversible, the angel thinks. Nothing so gauche as a binding contract. It is a strengthening of something old, instead - of the offer they had subliminally begun to make to one another, many years before. It is something grown from mutual trust. An agreement, to move forwards through this world together.

It is dizzying. It is wonderful.

Aziraphale can feel the connection tug as he, Crowley, and the three humans sit around a small table, at the restaurant where the wake had been held. He feels it tug as they agree to follow Jacob into a taxi and down the hill, to a grand building with iron facade and pale stone. He feels it tug while he and Crowley are briefly apart - the demon having accompanied Mariam back to her suite, to change for the evening. And he feels it tug as Crowley reappears in the lobby of the casino, half an hour later, having replaced his sombre funeral garb with colour.

“You look lovely,” the angel offers his friend, nervously - ignored by the humans, who are fussing between themselves, over playing chips and which table to visit first. Crowley smiles, and the connection between them tugs, again. “You’ve always suited red.”

“You’ve always suited black.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale looks down, flattening his hands over the tux he had miraculously found in the back of his bag. Crowley’s colours, really. Though cut in the traditional way. “Thank you.”

He flushes as the demon steps closer, resting two fingers against his arm.

“Drink?” 

“Yes.”

“Sidecar?”

“Mm.”

And Crowley leans in and brushes the softest little kiss against his cheek, and the angel feels his body tingle with magic.

There is too much love in the room, all of a sudden. Odds change, winning hands are dealt, young lovers reach out to one another, in their droves.

Crowley leans back, flicking an eyebrow over the top of his dark glasses.

“Really?”

“Oh, be quiet,” Aziraphale blushes and waves his friend off to fetch them a drink, trying not to smile at the increased swagger in the demon’s steps.

.

The evening passes quickly, as they explore the casino, trailing after the humans through bright lights and opulent rooms. They watch Jacob thoroughly embarrass himself at roulette and Mariam heckle her brother openly, at the Baccarat table. They play a game of Trente et Quarante and Crowley laughs himself silly as Aziraphale confounds all the odds, (as usual). They drink far more than they should and end up agreeing to a short taxi ride to one of Mariam’s favourite drinking establishments, afterwards.

When they arrive, the bar is filled with lights and beautiful people. Opulence and throbbing bass. It is not Aziraphale’s usual scene at all, but that does not matter, tonight, because it is Crowley’s - and the angel has an open invitation into the demon’s world, now. Following his friend through the throng, he plays witness to the beautiful, bright chaos that happens in the demon’s wake. He watches young humans overcome their inhibitions, to dance with who they’ve always wanted to dance with. He watches a middle aged man throw years of tight-lipped restraint to the wind, and order that second glass of champagne. He watches the young DJ slide a late eighties classic onto the decks, despite not being sure that it will land right.

It does land, of course, because the angel is there, too. He’s sprinkling his own work around, tonight - and he secretly quite likes the song, besides. He remembers being driven along in the Bentley to it, many years ago. The exact details of the conversation are foggy, but he can remember the feeling of safety. Rain pattering gently on the windscreen, London sliding past outside, him waffling away about some new purchase for the bookshop, and Crowley listening. He can remember the serious line of Crowley’s profile, the little smiles at the right points, the occasional sarcastic comments to keep him talking. He can remember the gentle tugging on that connection between them - for no reason other than they were just there, together, being.

They’ve been together for a long time, really, Aziraphale thinks. They’ve been bound by love. But now they are bound by choice, too, and that means more, somehow. It is love with understanding but without condition. It is a wonderful thing, the angel thinks. It is terrifying.

“Dance with me?” Crowley asks, holding out a hand to him in the shifting light.

Angels don’t dance, but Aziraphale does.

He takes his friend’s hand and lets himself be led into the packed room and they dance - or, rather, they do something which might resemble dancing. It doesn’t really have any steps and Aziraphale can’t really hear anything over the music, but when he leans in to shout this in Crowley’s ear, the demon just laughs.

“That’s the point,” he waves a hand, long fingers graceful and cut with flashing light. “S’too loud to think. Some of my best work, the amplifier!”

It is a bit. It’s loud and dark enough that the angel feels safe to lean in and press a kiss into his friend, knowing that the people around them on all sides are lost in their own fantasies. And he is bold enough to hang onto Crowley as the demon slides a hand around the back of the his neck and kisses back.

Crowley is soft, and warm, and tastes familiar. And it is dark enough to feel as if they are very far away from everyone around them. So, they hold onto one another until the end of the song. Then, the moment is broken and they break sheepishly apart to head for the bar.

.

The humans take a car home at around about one in the morning, and the demon and angel continue on. There is ample opportunity to hail a taxi, as they leave the bar, but that would bring an end to the hazy, dreamy feeling of the evening. So, they walk.

They walk north, along the waterfront. The ocean is dark and still beyond the barriers, rushing softly over a pebble beach. Aziraphale can smell the salt stronger than usual, perhaps because of the weather building, overhead. He looks to Crowley, wandering a few feet ahead of him, remembering the first time they met, on the shores of this sea.

He remembers the Crowley of the early days; hair even longer than he’s wearing it, now, and skin freckled from the sun. His feet had always been bare, then, or strapped in sandals - and the demon himself had been wrapped in long swathes of cloth. Aziraphale can remember his friend dressed as a shepherd, and a pilgrim - a priestess and a King. He can remember Crowley parading through the street as a Demi god, and receiving tributes as a pagan necromancer. He can remember the demon in the leather grieves of a warrior, and the flowing robes of a servant girl, and the rags a witch.

Crowley had always worn humanity’s trappings as if they were a costume. Even now, he is playing a part. Glimmering amongst the rich and famous, he’s Bond, wrapped in black cashmere; he’s Lynd, wrapped in silk. The way he dresses means something, the angel thinks. It is a statement of alignment with the human race. Crowley is a curator of all the aspects of humanity that he enjoys most - the different cultures, and genders, and times he has lived through.

And he wants an 'Earthly life’, Aziraphale thinks, feeling warmth rush through him. He wants drinks at the bookshop and dinners out, drives in the Bentley, and the feel of new, expensive technology in his hands. He wants to sheath his mortal body in things that please his immortal soul. He wants a home, and a mate. He wants Aziraphale to share in it all with him.

The angel is still processing the the things they said to one another, up on that hilltop, earlier today. He knows he is going to need time, to adjust to it fully, but he has a patient, beautiful demon to help with that, he thinks with a smile. He has a patient, beautiful demon to follow. Until the end of his days.

.

Narrow footpaths lead them back into the town, winding between main roads and through courtyards. There are plenty of people still out, laughing and jostling their way between drinking establishments. There are plenty of bars still open, thrumming with noise. As they pass beneath their neon signs, the colours catch in Crowley’s hair, and along the sharp edges of him. Shoulders and collarbones. The long line of his legs.

Aziraphale follows, transfixed, wondering if the demon’s Earthly body had been chosen with this very situation in mind. A creature formed of darkness and made to function in such. Then, the thought is split by the realisation that it is the light on Crowley that shows off his beauty, and - silly and overdramatic as it is - the thought causes him to well up, momentarily. It takes both things, he thinks. Balance.

As if he can sense the shift of emotion, Crowley turns, halfway across the courtyard ahead, and frowns back at him.

“You okay?”

The demon’s voice is light, happy.

Aziraphale does not want to taint the conversation with talk of Heaven and Hell, so he just nods and speeds up to walk beside his demon.

Crowley assesses him for a moment, then decides that he really is okay, and continues to stride along.

“Anyway, it’s a ridiculous law, if you think about it,” he says, rounding off his previous conversation. “People are just going to end up importing the stuff from somewhere else. And the quality will end up being shit. Taxing the stuff is the best solution, in the long run.” They watch one another for a long second. Then, Crowley’s face cracks into a smile. “You weren’t listening, were you?”

Aziraphale blinks, flushes.

“I was!”

“Liar,” the demon’s eyes flash with delight.

The angel stares, momentarily overwhelmed with the urge to lean up into his friend - to reach out and grip Crowley’s waist, and steer him back against a wall. Kiss into him. Pull one of those long legs up and wrap it around his hips and fuck the demon like they are two human creatures with only forty years of life left in them.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing.” Clearing his throat, Aziraphale looks quickly away, hoping the darkness hides the pink in his cheeks. “I just missed the last part, is all. What was it?”

“Oh, just some bollocks…” Crowley licks absently at his lower lip, still staring directly at him.His expression has shifted, slightly. He looks hungry. “Listen, do you want to come back, for a nightcap?” 

The offer sends a thrill up Aziraphale’s spine. He glances around.

They are just around the corner from the hotel. The distant sounds of music are ringing in his ears. The dark sky overhead is filled with tumultuous clouds, and the air smells of saltwater and rain. Crowley’s eyes are very wide and very golden, and very fixed on him.

“Well, I suppose I am heading that way,” Aziraphale mumbles, stepping carefully towards Crowley and then past, observing the demon in his peripheral vision. “It wouldn’t be much of a detour.”

“Not much at all.” His friend falls into step alongside him, legs impossibly long in four inch heels. “Don’t think it counts as a detour if you’re staying next door.”

“No…”

“Besides, my mini bar has that caramel nonsense you like, at the end of a night.”

“Does it?”

“Probably.”

“Did it, before a couple of seconds ago?” Aziraphale asks, just a hint of a tease - about as much as he dares.

“Dunno.” Crowley paces a few steps ahead, then throws a little look back over his shoulder. “It does now, though.”

They turn the corner, cross a road, Crowley holding up a hand to halt the cars. They cross a narrow strip of garden, bantering gently about frivolous miracles. Then, they’re stepping up to the front of the hotel and Crowley is holding the door open, and Aziraphale is stepping through it.

The journey up to the room, in the gilded lift, passes in a strange daze. Crowley fills the air, in that nervous, confident way he’s so good at - talking small batch bourbon and reminiscing over prohibition hootch. The light overhead catches in the brilliance of his hair, giving a halo to the crown of it. It is beautiful, but Aziraphale decides not point it out. He suspects that such a comment would lead to undue hissing and fussing, and he really needs them to be doing other things.

He needs the safety of Crowley’s room. He needs his friend’s wide eyes filling his vision. He needs the warm softness of demonic skin, under his hands.

A short hallway and a keycard swipe later, and they are stepping into the dark quiet of Crowley’s suite. He had been here this very morning, Aziraphale thinks, following the demon into the grand set of rooms. He had eyed that bed, up against the wall that his room shared. He had seen his friend’s discarded swimwear, hanging over the back of a seat. He had seen the keys to the Bentley, hanging over the edge of the bedside table.

Everything is very much as they had left it. But the mood is different, now. There is a tension in the air. Anticipation.

“Well. Here we are,” the demon murmurs, turning to face him, a few feet away. “Probably pretty much identical to your room.”

“Almost.” The angel makes a circular motion with his hand. “Though, the other way around.”

“Mirrored?”

“Indeed.”

“Naturally.”

They watch one another for a few long seconds, then Crowley seems to rally.

“Uh, why don’t you grab a drink?” He motions towards the mini bar and then heads towards the bathroom. “I’ll just be a sec.”

He closes the door behind him and Aziraphale hears him clicking around, inside. A few steps and then the turning of a tap, the rushing of water.

He breathes out, slowly.

So, here they are, he thinks. Alone. Together.

It is not exactly how he imagined it.

In Aziraphale's mind, this moment had always played out as if on fast forward. There had been desperate clawing, to get clothes off, and mouths meeting while eyes stay averted, and fear laced into it all - but there is none of that, in reality. In reality, the moment is something softer and gentler. The heat is not something superficial and sharp but something low and burning - something that starts down in the very depths of him and rises slowly, electrifying his skin. It is something familiar, yet new. Beautiful, yet terrifying.

Aziraphale’s fingertips are shaking, slightly, as he walks over and dips into the mini bar, pulling out the bottle that Crowley had said would be there, and a pair of glasses. All of his senses are heightened. He can smell the vanilla notes of the drink as it slips into the glasses. He can smell the distant scent of the demon, from the jacket folded over the foot of the bed. Cologne and Crowley, pressed into cotton.

Searching for a movement to calm himself, he walks over to the balcony and pushes the doors open. Setting Crowley’s on the balustrade, he leans against the stone beside it, taking a slow sip of his own drink as he stares out, into the night.

The clouds of the afternoon have gathered in pillars, overhead. They are great, threatening things, all purple and black. Their undersides are flattened by some force that the angel can feel, if not understand. There is a pressure to it, he thinks. Something building. He can almost taste the electricity in the air. They’ll have a storm in less than ten minutes. Everything is dark and unnaturally still. Waiting.

The tap in the bathroom turns off.

Aziraphale listens as his friend clicks around inside, then pushes the door open. There is a pause, then the sound of shoes being kicked off and muffled steps, as the demon makes his way across the room. He’s at the door by the time Aziraphale turns, looking up at him.

“Hey.” He finds Crowley down to his usual height. Aziraphale wonders if it had been a conscious choice, to take the heels off - a move to bring their mouths closer together, to increase the chances of contact. Or, perhaps, the demon’s feet are just sore, after a long night.“Sorry about that,” his friend motions, towards the bathroom. “I need to take the powder off right away. Get all sorts of breakouts if I don’t. Sensitive skin…”

Aziraphale smiles at the little cringe that follows the statement - the visible ‘ _I’m such a terrible demon_ ’ routine that trips out, behind his friend’s eyes.

“I poured you one,” he tells Crowley, motioning to the glass beside him. “I hope that was alright.”

“Mmh. Fine.” Crowley takes the glass and knocks back a rather large gulp, before stepping forwards to lean against the balustrade, bare feet pressed into one another, staring out in the direction of the sea. “S’quiet,” he comments, after a few seconds of silence.

“The calm before the storm, I imagine,” Aziraphale smiles, turning back to stare into the darkness, too.

They watch as a few cars wind past, into the intersection below, then split off in separate directions. A couple of humans laugh raucously, as they peel out of a taxi, down at the entrance to the hotel. In the park across the way, Aziraphale spots another couple, sitting on a bench.

He has sat beside Crowley like that countless times, he thinks, dazedly. He has sat beside him and laughed, sat beside him and argued, sat beside him and feared. Now, he can sit beside him and plan futures that are entirely their own, he thinks. If he liked, he could walk with the demon to the park and buy him one of those ridiculous ice lollies he likes, and they could sit with their knees touching. With their hands holding. He could lean over and kiss him, if Crowley liked - and he thinks the demon would. He’s almost sure the demon would.

Taking another slow sip of bourbon, the angel lets the taste of caramel play out on his tongue, notes of vanilla and oak carrying up, through his palate. It is a fine thing. He can always tell whether alcohol is human made or miracled. This is human made. Crowley must have summoned it from his own lair, in London.

It is a preposterous, showy miracle, and Aziraphale appreciates it very much because it is a tiny ‘I love you’. It is the only sort of ‘I love you’ that they have been able to share, before. But not now, the angel reminds himself. Not now.

“See those two,” Crowley murmurs, motioning down at the couple on the bench. “They’ve been hanging around the pool all week. Lots of repression. Lots of doubts. Prime targets.”

Aziraphale turns his chin slightly to focus on the demon better, to watch the sharp notch of his friend’s brow, side-lit by city lights.

“What would you do, to tempt them?” He asks, softly.

There is a danger to knowing, but it is a danger he is coming to terms with. That he would follow Crowley to the ends of the world had always scared Aziraphale, in the past. Now, it does not. Not because he would no longer follow - but because he knows that there are places that Crowley will never go. He can trust his beautiful, kind, brilliant demon, the angel thinks. He can trust him with his life, with his future, with this world.

“I’d start by frightening her a bit,” Crowley explains, raising a long hand.

One finger outstretched, he traces an arc through the shadows the trees, down below. There is a gentle rush of wind - miracled into being. The leaves rustle, as if something is crawling through them, towards the couple. The dark haired woman twists in her seat, looking around.

“Now, I do the same to her friend,” the demon explains, and he concentrates. It is a different atmospheric disturbance. A rippling chill, which travels across the grass towards the fairer woman on the bench. It is only noticeable to Aziraphale because he knows the twists and turns of Crowley’s magic. “Just a little.”

“Spooky…” the angel murmurs, unable to keep the tease from it, because he’s fully aware that Crowley is only doing this to show off. The humans aren’t being harmed. It’s just his friend playing around, and he trusts Crowley. And it’s nice, he thinks, that the demon feels safe enough to share this.

Long pupils swivelling over, watching the angel.

“Big spooky fan, remember?"

“Mmm.” Aziraphale takes a little sip of his drink, then looks back down at the small figures of the humans, in the park, both staring nervously into the darkness, shuffling closer along their bench. “What exactly does this accomplish?” he asks, giving in to what Crowley wants him to do. Following the trail of breadcrumbs.

“An awareness of impermanence and the importance of connection.”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow.

"They get scared and it makes them want to reach out to one another," Crowley explains.

“Always?” 

“Almost. Here, watch.”

The demon presses into his magic again. Aziraphale feels it rush around him, spreading out through the night. And below, on the bench, the humans shudder and lean into one another. Their hands slide together, fingers gripping in solidarity.

Then, Crowley snaps his fingers. The creeping fear vanishes with a rapidity that leaves the night feeling warmer, stiller, safer. The humans both give a visible sigh of relief. Then, a little start as they look down and find their hands joined. There is a very long moment where they both just stare. Then, one of the two humans looks back up at her friend and speaks. And the second woman smiles.

Shoulders soften. Body language shifts - the change subtle but important. As Aziraphale watches, the pair stand up from their bench and begin to walk towards the distant lights of the hotel, still holding hands, together in a way they weren’t before. It is not a resolution, the angel thinks, but it is definitely a step. There is a feeling of potential in their movements.

“You know… one of those twinkly confidence miracles you go in for would do wonders, right now,” the demon points out, at Aziraphale’s side.

The angel had been thinking the very same thing.

“You wouldn’t mind?” He asks Crowley.

“Nah… might as well. S’not like this is a real temptation.”

Aziraphale casts the spell to make it last. And he adds a little twist at the end, to stoke hope in the young hearts, below.

“Sap,” Crowley grunts.

“Show off,” the angel retorts, fairly.

“Only for you.”

The words hit Aziraphale somewhere near his stomach and cause him to take a rushed intake of breath.

He looks around.

Crowley is still looking decidedly away from him, off into the night.

“You seem to have a thing for my half-assed demonic nonsense.”

It is true. So very true.

“I suppose I do, a little,” Aziraphale admits.

“Bit weird, really. I mean, it’s not as if you’ve ever seen me doing anything really cool. I don’t really go in for the things that humans usually attribute to our lot… Don’t speak latin, or know any good curses. Never conducted any blood sacrifices.” Crowley wrinkles his nose. “And the idea of possessing someone has always sort of given me the heebie-jeebies.”

The angel finds his mouth curling towards a smile.

“I’m sorry, the-?”

The demon rolls his eyes.

“I also occasionally say things like ‘ _heebie-jeebies_ ', which kind of ruins the whole aesthetic.” He casts a sideways scowl. “Blame you for that, though. All that out-of-date lingo, rubbing off on me.”

Aziraphale feels the momentary urge to tell his friend that he’s always harboured a secret desire to rub off on him, but manages to catch himself.

“Well, I suppose there have to be some downsides, to spending time in the company of an angel,” he concedes, instead.

“Mm. The idioms and the wine bills.”

A laugh bubbles up Aziraphale’s throat.

“Well, quite.”

“S’not that bad, really…”

Reaching out, Aziraphale slides a hand across the stone balustrade and finds Crowley’s. It is an impulsive move - clumsy and hesitant - but the demon's fingers open, in response to a gentle press and, as Aziraphale traces a slow circle on the back of his hand, his friend’s long black pupils begin to dilate.

Do you know your eyes do that, for me, the angel wonders. Do you know I have always been able to read want, in you? He suspects Crowley doesn’t. The demon would never have taken his sunglasses off, these last few hundred years, if he had.

“You are very beautiful,” he tells his friend, softly.

Crowley blinks thrice, in rapid succession.

“Uh…”

“Are you happy for me to say things like that? I don’t have to.”

“You can say whatever you want, angel.” 

“Good,” Aziraphale smiles, tracing another little circle with his thumb. Watching those eyes fill up with pupil. “Crowley?”

“Mm?” 

“May I stay here, tonight?”

There is barely a pause.

“Yes.”

“May I take you to bed?” 

“What? Like the blushing bride in some victorian romance novel?” The demon asks, in a breathless attempt at a bluster.

“Well,” Aziraphale considers, "there is not a great deal of victorian literature that details what exactly I’d like to do for you, darling, but yes. I do believe the sentiment carries.”

“Fuck, angel…” There is something unbearably honest and arousing about it - the whispered expletive, the pet name. It is a gentle foray into vulnerability. “Yeah,” Crowley’s eyes flick between his own. “Okay.”

Aziraphale edges two fingertips under his friend’s wrist. He can feel a heartbeat thrilling away, there, going so fast. But that is okay, he reminds himself. He does not want to go slow, tonight. And he does not want Crowley standing tense, a few feet away from him. They’re past that. They have no use for that. They’re moving on. He needs him closer.

“Come here?” He asks the demon, who is watching with barely restrained need.

“Mm’kay.” Crowley takes a single step forwards.

Aziraphale closes the rest of the distance.

The demon is incredibly warm, to the touch. The fingers of Aziraphale’s left hand find the curve of his waist and rest there, on top of the silk he has been wrapped in all night. Slowly, carefully, Aziraphale draws his thumb in a circle - a prolonged touch, designed to acclimatise them both.

“This is nice.”

“Mmh.”

"Do you think it's odd, that we want this?"

"Probably." Crowley's voice is no more than a whisper. Reassurance. "But I think it's enough that we do."

"Yes." He feels warm. Safe. Reassured. "Yes. I think it is, actually."

"Mmh."

Sliding a hand past his friend’s waist, Aziraphale spreads his fingers out. Crowley’s back is slender, narrow columns of muscle on either side of a prominent spine. The angel runs fingertips down the notches of it, ticking them off like prayer beads. Thirty three notches. Thirty three recitations of love, muttered under his breath. There is power in the meditation of it. In the moment, Aziraphale feels very sure that their bodies have been made for worship.

That he loves Crowley is surely praise to Her, the angel thinks - (only thinks, because it has been many years since he has talked to God). That they exist, that they love, is surely what She intended.

Crowley’s lips are hovering very close to the angel’s ear. Aziraphale can feel warm breath against his skin. And the moment hangs, suspended. The angel is pushing himself gently towards action, towards the first step in this dance. He is silently gathering courage. Before he quite manages it, however, the sky overhead shatters.

Lightning splits the air.

Ragged lines of pure white shoot across the horizon, spreading out like river deltas, racing towards the ocean. The clouds around them are illuminated for the briefest of seconds - all navy blue and deepest purples, great dark-bellied angry things, with wisps spreading out towards the ground, in the distance. And then it's gone. As suddenly as it had appeared. 

Everything is silent. 

“Fuck…”

Aziraphale looks back down. Crowley is clutching at him, belly pressed close. They must have pulled together, in the moment, he thinks - seeking connection, seeking reassurance. For a split second, the idea sends a thrill of fear through him. Then, he realises he does not need to fear anymore. They have chosen this. They are allowed this.

For five seconds, the angel stares at the demon and the demon stares at the sky. Everything seems to hover. Then, thunder cuts through the air - a deep, guttural thing, that shakes the windows and makes Aziraphale’s teeth itch. Then, it fades, and raindrops begin to fall.

In the streets below, voices call out in surprise - shrieks of delight and shock at the cold water. All of a sudden, the night is full of noise. The pressure that has been building, all afternoon, has reached its breaking point and the clouds’ pregnant bellies give way in a rush. Raindrops land with audible slaps against the stone of the hotel balcony, to Aziraphale’s right. They drum like many footed creatures through the streets, below. As the night’s revellers scurry for cover, into nearby bars and restaurants, Crowley lifts a hand to cover his face.

The sight is too much, for Aziraphale. Always has been.

Reaching out, into another dimension, the angel unfolds his wings and spreads them high over the pair of them. The white feathers glow luminous in the night, a stark contrast with the towering clouds and the inky sky. They block out a second flash, that illuminates the treetops in the park. They cushion the sound of thunder that follows afterwards.

Breathing in, Crowley looks up at them, then down at Aziraphale, eyes wide.

“Always thought that was a flash move,” he mutters, breathless. “Show off…”

And Aziraphale leans in, brushing a kiss against his mate and swallowing the sigh that results as his own.

“Only for you.”He whispers.

And they fall together.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick heads-up; the next chapter is going to be firmly E-rated. So, if that's not your thing, please skip ahead to chapter 10! 
> 
> Thank you for reading and commenting. Your words always make me smile. Find me lurking on [IG](https://www.instagram.com/heycaricari/), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/heycaricari), and [Tumblr](https://heycaricari.tumblr.com/) @heycaricari


	9. Crowley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this chapter. I was moving house, this week, and there is not enough wine in the world to deal with that sort of change while also editing. Anyway. Hope this is worth the wait. :)

.

They push their way back inside the hotel room in a tangle of limbs, wrapped up in the scent of storm, and rain, and ethereal feathers. Their feet stumble, but they do not fall. The wind blows the doors wide open, crashing against the wall, but - by some miracle - they do not shatter. Things are going to go right this evening, Crowley thinks, grinning into his friend’s mouth. That is what tends to happen, when you get an angel happy enough to glow.

His friend's glow is filling the room, now - not with light, but something deeper and ethereal - an energy that seems to radiate from deep inside of the angel. It sort of tingles, as it rushes around Crowley’s own magic, the two of them mixing like a river flowing out to sea - freshwater, lifted up by salt. Aziraphale, elevating him by grounding him here, on Earth.

Crowley feels giddy. Drunk. His best friend is pressing rough kisses into his mouth, making delighted noises as the demon winds hands into the back of his hair. And Crowley is probably making similar noises back - though he cannot hear them, over the thrilling of his own pulse. He can’t seem to get enough air in. Can’t seem to concentrate on not needing to breathe. It is as if all of the sensations of his human-ish form have all been dialled up to eleven. He feels potently physical. Yet potently powerful, and alive.

He’s sweating and a little shaky. All of his blood seems to be flowing in the opposite direction to his brain - heading down between his legs, making him ache. There is something enticingly crude about the process of human sexual arousal, the demon thinks, groaning into his friend. It is dramatic. Unsubtle. He loves it.

“You okay?” The angel takes a break from laying wet kisses into the curve of his neck, glancing up.

“Nnn’yeah… yeah…”

Crowley had joked, earlier, about being bedded like some victorian heroine, but he feels dangerously close to swooning, now. It should be embarrassing, really, he thinks, fingers of one hand tangled in the angel’s lapels, fingers of the other curled over the edge of a strong wing. He should be mortified by the whole situation. He just can’t seem to work up to it, though.

“These are good. Can we keep them out?” He asks, breathlessly, pressing a thumb into the underside of the wing joint.

Aziraphale smiles, flexing into the touch. 

“Reliving old memories, darling?”

There is a tease in it, but only a little one. There is interest, too.

“I can get mine out, too,” the demon offers. “Could be a whole, kinky thing.”

Aziraphale chuckles at him - as if it's not kinky in the slightest - and Crowley feels a rush of nervous anticipation to learn why, someday. To find out what the angel likes doing, that makes two immortal winged creatures mimicking human sexual intercourse seem tame? But he has a lifetime to find that out, he thinks, stretching back from his friend. He has a lifetime to learn Aziraphale. So, he stretches out and bends reality around him, unfolding a little more of himself into an Earthly dimension - sleek black wings manifesting on either side.

“Beautiful,” Aziraphale lets go of his neck, which feels awful, but softens the blow by tracing fingertips along the fringe of Crowley’s long primaries. “All of you is so beautiful.”

Not sure about that, the demon thinks. He is hellfire and starlight, wrapped in bone and sinew. Superficially, of course, he is also human-shaped, but he doesn’t think that’s what Aziraphale is talking about, here. He’s fairly sure the angel means the other parts of him - the parts that only they can see - the parts the wings represent. Crowley’s true form, and his magic, and all the layers that make up his immortal soul.

And that thought leaves the demon feeling a bit quivery and uncomfortable, because he does not find all those pieces of himself beautiful. He finds some of them downright ugly. But, he supposes, he can trust Aziraphale to see him that way, even if he does not, yet. He can trust his friend to love for both of them.

“They’re the same as they’ve always been,” he says, trying for nonchalance, but Aziraphale beats it back with sincerity.

“And they have always been beautiful. All of your forms are beautiful.”

Crowley gives an embarrassed mutter and shrug, which the angel ignores. Running his fingers over the top of an obsidian wing, he leans in for a kiss. Then, another.

“What would you like to do, then?”

“Oh.” Crowley blinks. He had definitely been under the impression that ‘take you to bed’ meant sex and now he’s suddenly worried he got that wrong. “I, uh… thought we could just, you know…” he glances back at the bed, hopefully.

“I only meant is there anything, in particular, that you like?” the angel clarifies, with the tiniest ghost of a grin. “I enjoy most things human shaped creatures can do, with their bodies, but I would like to know your preferences. I want this to be something we can explore, together.”

“Oh, right.” Crowley flexes his wings, feeling simultaneously relieved and self conscious. “I dunno. Think I’ll be fine as long as you’re touching me, really.” He had intended for it to sound blasé, but it comes out all honest and vulnerable, instead.

To his eternal credit, Aziraphale does not shirk away. Nor does he leap forwards, in pity. Instead, he reaches out, resting a thumb against the demon’s chin. Tilting Crowley’s head, he presses a very slow kiss against his mouth. The another - the movement gathering heat as his tongue slips forwards, to touch the tips of Crowley’s.

When they part, the angel takes the demon’s hand and presses it over his chest - letting Crowley feel his heart drumming away, under his shirt.

“This, darling,” Aziraphale murmurs, softly. “This is what touching you does to me.”

“You could slow that down, if you wanted,” the demon points out, unable to stop himself.

His friend smiles.

“I could, but that is rather the point. I don’t want to. I like this. I like us touching. I want to do a great deal more of it.” He hesitates, eyeing Crowley shyly. “I want to be able to make you feel good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale nods, his eyes heartfelt, before adding, (a touch less seriously), “Repeatedly, actually. In a number of different configurations.”

“Oh. Right.” Crowley feels his cheeks flush.

They stare at one another for a few seconds, Aziraphale looking slightly hopeful.

Crowley swallows, biting back the spiralling feeling of panic that comes with expectations.

“That’s, uh… what I want, as well," he eventually manages. “It’s just a bit of a mindfuck, too - telling my best friend I’ve always wanted to spend more time with my face between his legs.” He winces. Perseveres. “You know… Have spent a lot of time actively _not_ saying that.”

Aziraphale’s lips curl into a smile.

“As have I.” They watch one another for a long moment. “For future reference, I would be amenable.” Reaching out, he strokes a hand up Crowley’s side, thumb barely catching on the smooth silk of his dress. “Your face between my legs, that is…” He nudges his face in, nose against Crowley’s cheek. “Some time. If you liked?”

The tension in the moment slides away a little.

Crowley gives a little snort.

“How terribly magnanimous of you.”

Aziraphale gives him a flash of dark eyes and a chuckle, then he turns his face in, capturing Crowley’s sarcastic mouth in his.

They kiss once. Three times.

“Just let me know what you like, as we go. Okay?"

“Okay.” 

And then they’re kissing, stumbling the last few steps to the mattress, Crowley nearly toppling over onto it and having to steady himself on his best friend’s shoulders. He feels bolder, the closer they get. He feels more sure, each time he slides his hands down the angel, feeling the latent strength of him, and Aziraphale does not pull away. Because this is okay, he reminds himself. He is allowed this. They are allowed this.

Giving a little groan, Crowley buries his face into his friend's neck, breathing in familiar scent; cologne and the soap that the angel uses to wash his hair, and the something 'other' about his skin - the elemental magic that Aziraphale is made of. If someone had asked him his deepest wish, a few nights ago, Crowley would have asked for this. Just contact and acceptance. Now, he has this, plus a future. This, and the possibility of more.

He closes his eyes, breathes Aziraphale in.

When it comes to specifics of what he likes, Crowley has imagined multitudes but never let himself seriously entertain them happening. He supposes, if he had to list a couple fantasies, then he would like to be fucked against a wall, sometime. He’d like to have Aziraphale pin him down and ride him, thinking only of his own pleasure. He’d like to spread his friend out on the bed and trace over his body, slowly, until Aziraphale was whimpering his name. He’d like to hold onto one of those pale wings during-… Well, during anything, really.

“Pisstaking aside,” he admits, in a rush, “I would, uh, like to keep the wings out.”

“Of course,” the angel agrees, no questions.

Crowley feels confidence tingle at the back of his throat.

“Ok and, uh… we could be naked?”

“Definitely.”

“Okay.”

His hands start working on the angel's suit jacket, immediately. Pushing it from his friend’s shoulders, he guides Aziraphale closer to the bed. There is tension growing in the pit of his abdomen. His cock is aching, inside his underwear. The reality of the situation keeps hitting, over and over, in waves - that he’s going to get to feel his friend, naked, against him. They are allowed this. They are finally allowed this.

“What else?” The angel asks, pulling arms out of his jacket, shrugging it off.

“Dunno. Just you, really.”

“Do you want to be inside me?”

“Fuck, yes. I mean-,” Crowley blinks and frowns at himself, taking a moment to read his body. “Yes, but… later, I think? Maybe…” this feels so very fucking weird. “Maybe you inside me, first?”

“Okay.” Aziraphale nods at him, pupils very wide, tongue darting out to touch the pink inside of his upper lip, in what he clearly hasn't realised is a tic - something he does when he's excited. “I’d like that.”

“Yeah?"

Aziraphale nods again. Then, taking takes a few steps away from Crowley, he folds his jacket and drops it into the seat of a nearby chair. His eyes are suddenly very purposeful.

“Sit down on the bed, for me?”

Crowley complies.

To be fair, he’d comply to just about anything, by this point. He’d dress in sequins and offer to assist in one of Aziraphale’s awful magic shows - recite the Iliad from memory, re-enact the battle of Hastings in full regalia, march through Hell, in the buff, playing the trombone - if it meant he got to stay here, in this dark room, with the rain drumming against the windows, watching his friend slowly undress. This is exactly where he wants to be, he thinks, watching Aziraphale slip a cufflink from his sleeve, unveiling skin that is slightly paler than the rest of him.

The tendons in the angel's wrists flex. Crowley wants to apply his mouth and suck.

“Anything you need from me, I will endeavour to give,” the angel tells him. There is an edge to his voice that that Crowley has never heard, before - something low and wanting. The first cufflink is dropped on top of the jacket, with a dull ‘thunk’, ramping Crowley’s heart rate up another few notches. “My body is yours to share, if you want it.”

He leaves the end of the sentence trailing upwards - almost a question.

“I want it,” Crowley manages to push out, past vocal cords which seem intent on strangling themselves. “Always have.”

The angel's face performs a little parade of expressions; bashful surprise, then pleasure, then something very smug. He gives a prim adjustment, fiddling with his remaining cufflink, then drops it neatly beside its fellow.

“Well. That is rather ideal.”

You are ideal, Crowley thinks, warmth pooling in his abdomen. You are brilliant and beautiful and I know you so well. I know that you tossed that cufflink to hide your nerves. I know that, when your lips are pressed tightly together like that, it is because you are trying to tamp down on a brilliant smile. I _know_ you.

Leaning back, the demon swallows.

"We can do whatever you like,” he tells his friend. The words come out all smooth and suave, which is exactly opposite of how he’s feeling, inside. “I’m up for anything, really.”

A little spark flashes, in Aziraphale’s eyes. A hint of bastardry.

“Anything?” It’s a call to his bluff.

Crowley swallows.

“Yeah.”

The angel watches him carefully for a moment, expression appraising. Then, he lifts his fingers and tugs at the bow tie at his neck. The satin comes free, falling open to reveal a dark ‘v’ of smooth skin.

Something tightens inside of Crowley. His cock twitches.

_Fuck. Okay. So, that was a thing. Suppose that’s what you got, though, for fantasising about undressing someone in very specific way, for over a hundred years..._

“Rather risky to give me carte blanche, isn’t it?” His bastard angel asks, a few feet away, unbelievably coquettish for a man-shaped creature who had been unable to speak the word ‘sex’, just earlier today.

“Well, you are an angel.”

"We haven't even agreed on a safe word."

“Bloody Hell…” Crowley groans. “Come here.” He holds out a hand.”Come-,” beckons the angel forwards, “here, and stop trying to give me a heart attack, won’t you?”

Looking thoroughly delighted with himself, Aziraphale lets himself be tugged in.

“Close enough?”

“Nnh. Better.”

The demon presses a little kiss against his friend’s wrist, feeling the angel's pulse. It is not as fast as Crowley’s. Nothing could beat as fast as Crowley’s, the demon thinks. He feels like he’s ready to spontaneously combust - to discorporate and turn up in Hell as a pile of ash, reduced to component parts by a fussy angel in too many layers.

“Nobody actually wears this many clothes,” he mutters, guiding the angel’s hand up to his cheek and revelling in the fact that Aziraphale knows exactly what to do next - to slide both hands back, through his hair, scratching along the scalp. “Need to get rid of these.”

“I suppose we do.”

Getting bolder, Crowley lifts his fingers to the front of the angel’s shirt.

“What are these things even made of - soap?”

The buttons are faced in pearl, slippery under Crowley’s slightly shaking hands. The buttonholes, no more than tiny embroidered slits worked into fine cotton, do not help. And then there’s all of that angelic warmth, radiating through the fabric. And the way it stretches slightly, over his friend's belly. And the fact his hips are just a few inches away, and Crowley can see the slowly hardening outline of angelic cock. And the fact that Aziraphale is wearing white braces. Actual braces. The whole situation is unbearably hot.

Crowley briefly considers telling his friend to just leave his clothes on - telling him to bend him over the end of the bed and fuck him, as is - but the dizzy possibility of the angel actually agreeing to that is quickly subsumed by the even more mind-boggling idea that they could do that some other time. They could do that tomorrow. Or the next day. Or next week, or next month, or next year.

This is not some drunken clinch, Crowley reminds himself, feeling suddenly very dizzy. This is the start of something. They are going to do this countless times. They are going to do this for as long as they want to. Probably forever. That is, unless Crowley is so spectacularly bad that it puts his friend off, for good.

Mind you, he thinks. It has been one hundred and sixty-odd years since he’s done this. He might well be shit. But no, that’s ridiculous. Stupid thing to think. He shakes his head, to try and clear it. Sex can’t go _that_ wrong, after all. It’s just rubbing body parts together. It's just skin on skin and a whole lot of hormones and mess. It is intuitive. How else would the bloody humans have figured it out, back in the garden? It’ll be like riding a bike, Crowley tells himself. Once you know how, you never really forget. He is just out of practice.

Mind you, he’s never ridden a bike. Does the metaphor still stand? He can’t imagine _forgetting_ how to ride one. Does a bike even have an engine? Or was it just pedals? Aziraphale would know. Should he ask?

_Fuck._

He needs to stop thinking.

“Crowley?” Peeling his eyes open, he finds his best friend watching him with such acute fondness that his stomach performs one of those uncomfortable, wibbly backflips that it's been practicing, all weekend. “Darling, would you like a hand?”

Crowley glances down. He’s only managed two buttons.

“Nnn’sssorry. I’m fine,” he stammers. “Just… overthinking.”

“I know.” Aziraphale looks down, performing a slightly nervous lick of his lips, then lifts his eyes tomeet Crowley’s. “How about I take care of these and then help you not-think, for a few minutes? I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear it, but I do enjoy using my mouth.”

“Uhhhh…”

Crowley stares.

What was anyone supposed to _say_ to that?

“I’d like to,” the angel adds, softly, after a few long seconds of staring. “If you’d enjoy it, that is?”

_Oh, Hell. Here went nothing…_

“Okay.”

“Excellent.” The slight tension in Aziraphale’s shoulders relaxes. He nods his head, towards further up the bed. “Scooch up, won't you?”

Feeling there must be a sexier word to describe the movement, Crowley scooches up the bed, pulling his bare feet after him. Pressing his knees together, he tucks the silk neatly around himself then sets his hands on either side, trying to look composed.

At the foot of the bed, the angel busies himself in sliding braces from his shoulders, unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it free. Down to just his suit trousers, he kicks his shoes and socks off, and crawls up onto the bed, after Crowley. 

“Is this okay?” he asks, drawing level.

“Very.”

Having Aziraphale unclothed is a brand new experience. It is not the nudity aspect of it, per se. Crowley has seen the angel naked up close, before. There had been plenty of human societies, over the years, where nudity had not been frowned upon, and the pair of them have lived through them all. They have bathed, together, in Constantinople and Rome. Crowley has seen the angel partially naked on beaches and in streams, washing his clothes and skin. He remembers, on one memorable occasion, coming across him after a battle and helping to remove an arrow from his upper thigh.

He’s seen this chest, before, he thinks, reaching a tentative hand out, to ghost over it. He’s seen all of this body, before - but he has never had a standing invite to partake in it. He has never been able to trace the groove down the side of Aziraphale’s belly, or slide a hand around, to palm the plush flesh over his ribs. He has never brushed his fingertips through the fine hair between his nipples or to traced it down, to where it becomes a track of down, below his navel.

“You are…” he’s not sure what to say.

“A little soft,” the angel supplies, the hint of bashfulness about his eyes.

“Well, yeah,” Crowley mutters. Obviously. He’s soft and beautiful and stunning. Always has been. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

He feels like a grade A idiot for about two seconds. Then, the angel’s expression melts and he gives this watery little smile that tells Crowley he’s said exactly the right thing, and the demon breathes a sigh of relief.

“Thank you, darling.”

“S’alright.” He shrugs, then looks back up at his friend, only slightly blushing. “You, uh… going to mess me up a bit, then?”

Aziraphale gives a soft laugh and leans in, cupping one cheek as he presses a kiss to the other one.

“Of course. Lie down, for me?”

Heartbeat reaching a new level of frenetic, Crowley lets himself be rolled over onto his back. It takes every ounce of willpower to keep his hands still and submit to the gentle touches that Aziraphale traces down chest and his belly, through the fabric of his dress.

He is potently aware of his own ragged breaths and is grateful for the noise of the rain, still banging against the windows, which muffles them slightly. He’s very aware of his cock, too, trapped under the waistband of his pants. He’s not entirely sure that he’s going to manage to keep his cool, while Aziraphale works him free. Only the fact that he can snap his fingers and remove the requirement for a refractory period can calm his nerves, on that one.

He still gasps, however, when Aziraphale slides a hand under his skirt.

“This okay?”

“Yesss…” He squirms a bit, arches his back, reflexively. He can feel a thumb pressing in the crease of his leg. Aziraphale, folded into him. He wants him deeper, Crowley thinks, the intensity of the need hitting him in a rush. He wants more. “Ss’fine,” he mutters, swallowing hard. “S’good.”

“Can I undress you?”

“Fuck. Yes. Please _._ ”

Aziraphale flashes him a little smile, then leans back in. He takes his time, working the silk of Crowley’s skirt up and over his waist. Crowley has always known the angel would take his time. Aziraphale likes to savour things, to hang onto things. He likes to lose himself in the sensualism of a moment. The reality of being on the other end of such precise attentions, on the other hand, is beyond the demon’s wildest imaginations.

The angel kisses up the inside of his left thigh painstakingly slowly, as if each inch of Crowley is bringing him new, unparalleled pleasure. He keeps making this little noise - a half-moan. It is intoxicating. He only stops when he reaches the hemline of Crowley’s pants.

“These are nice,” he comments, looking up for long enough that Crowley looks down, to meet his eyes.

“Entertaining pants,” the demon quips, then cringes as he realises he needs to qualify that statement, now. “Just solo entertainment, these days…”

He feels Aziraphale tip his head forwards and smile, against his thigh.

“Well. You wear them beautifully.”

Crowley manages not to slide his hands over his face, in embarrassment, but it is a close thing. He screws his eyes shut, pulling a face at the ceiling.

“Thanksss…”

“All of you is beautiful,” Aziraphale breathes out, roughly, a warm puff of air against his belly, against the lace that’s straining to hold Crowley’s very erect cock in place. “So very…” he kisses the tip of him, through the waistband, making the demon’s thighs tense and his toes curl, “…very beautiful.”

“Oh, jesus, fuck…”

“Can I take these off?”

“If you don’t I might genuinely discorporate.”

A kiss against his thigh.

“Okay.”

The gentleness with which Aziraphale slides the lace free, over his thighs, is almost an act of worship. It is an act performed unambiguously for Crowley, and there are so many societal constructs built up around kneeling between someone’s legs, that the demon is shivering by the time his friend settles there. Then, he does more than shiver, as Aziraphale flattens one warm hand over his cock.

“Nygk!” He nearly squirms out of his skin.

“Too much?”

“No, no, no, no…” He lets out a thin whine as the angel drags finger pads along the length of him. “Yesss, that. More.”

“More?”

“Mmh!”

The demon nods and groans, pushing his head back into the duvet. The bed has been neatly made that afternoon. It is tucked in, ironed flat. He wonders if the shape of him will be burnt into its clean crisp surface, once Aziraphale is done; an effigy of the creature that had once been Crowley.

“Just relax,” Aziraphale whispers, against his inner thigh.

“Fucked if I can do that…”

Giving him one last squeeze, the angel settles himself on his elbows, one arm wrapped around Crowley’s thigh, and nuzzles forwards to take the demon's cock in his hot, wet mouth. And Crowley is gone.

Time melts into nothing - an endless pit of tightening pleasure. Embarrassment flees, along with dignity and shame. Before he knows what he’s doing, his hands are in Aziraphale’s hair. One foot has slid up against the side of the angel’s ribs, just under his wing, and he’s clutching onto Aziraphale to ground himself.

He is being dramatic. He is being a right useless tart, but, try as he might, he cannot seem to dial back the response. He is lost in sensation - in the wet heat of his friend’s tongue, and the smooth roof of his mouth, and the sharp waves of pleasure, and blunt relief. He wants it to last forever. He wants to keep winding fingers into those wild curls. Wants to keep listening to that little noise that Aziraphale is making, on repeat, until the very end of all time.

It’s the devils food cake noise, he thinks, dazedly. It’s chocolate cake, with an overlay of well-caramelised creme brûlée. He is the luckiest fucking desert on Earth.

_Fuck._

He is losing his mind… There is a very real possibility… that he’s losing his mind.

“Angel… angel, angel, angel…” _Fuck…_

Crowley scrabbles through his memories, desperately searching for something to think of that might make this last longer. He visualises the city outside and tries to catalogue the architecture by period. He tries to remember the rules of ancient card games, and calculates the odds of a winning hand of each. He tries to recount all the moves in a poker game he once played, down in Hell, and spends a moment focussing on his former colleagues’ horrible faces. But it’s still not enough.

He is being stroked with such metronomic consistency that he can barely stand it. There’s an agile tongue, playing over the head of him, rubbing flat against the slit of him. Soft fingertips are stroking behind his balls, sliding back to stroke the smooth skin behind them. Then, he’s being sucked greedily down and that hand is back around the shaft of him, matching the movements of the angel’s mouth. Chancing a look, he sees Aziraphale’s beautiful cheeks pulled in, his best friend’s brow furrowed in concentration as he swallows him down. And heat surges up, within the demon.

“Sssshit…” He’s going to come. He’s going to clench and spill right down that pink, perfect throat. He’s-, “Hey, Aziraphale, hey - hey!”

Reaching down, the demon pushes urgently at his lover’s shoulder, only just managing to get a hand down in time, as the angel lifts off him. Grasping himself around the base, he squeezes, far too hard to be pleasurable.

A little dribble of whatever he’s been leaking slides down the length of him, mixing with angelic spit, into the crease of his thigh. For a few split seconds, he thinks he’s missed the mark and he’s going to come anyway. Then, the rising tension in him plateaus, and slowly begins to fade, leaving a deep ache behind. 

“Ffff-fuck…”

“Mmh.”

He looks down.

Aziraphale has a cheek resting on the inside of his thigh. He’s breathless and flushed, the pink of his lips very wet, and his eyes are darker than the demon has ever seen them.

“Well, that looked rather close,” he comments, with what Crowley appreciates to be a complete lack of sympathy. He looks very pleased with himself.

“Shit… wow.”

“Are you okay?”

“Ugh.”

“You’ll be fine,” the angel smiles. “Just breathe.”

“I am breathing…” The demon blinks hard, shakes his head a bit. “Where the _Heaven_ did you learn how to do that?”

Aziraphale gives a little flick of his eyebrows.

“You know, it’s rather a good story and I will absolutely share it with you, at some point. But, right now, I think there are things I would rather be doing.”

As Crowley watches, the angel takes his weight in his arms and clambers back up the bed, until the front of his thighs are butting up against the back of Crowley's. Leaning in, he presses a series of wet kisses into the demon’s mouth.

“You taste wonderful, dear boy.”

Crowley doesn’t know how to respond. He can taste the salt-tang of his own skin on the angel’s tongue and wonders why it is so much better, coming from Aziraphale. He wonders if everything tastes better, coming from Aziraphale, and feels a rush of joy as he realises he has the rest of eternity to figure that out.

“That was,” he mutters, dazedly, “hands down, the best thing I’ve ever seen you do with your mouth. Including that time we discovered the little gelato stand, off Covent Garden.”

Aziraphale gives this wonderful little laugh - all embarrassed and delighted.

“I remember that summer,” he reminisces, softly. “You bought me seconds. And thirds. I had cherry and… oh, what was the other flavour?”

“Amaretto,” the demon groans, capturing his lips. He takes three kisses, all hard and demanding, then holds Aziraphale’s face close, afterwards. “It came with a really long spoon and you kept doing this thing where you wrapped your tongue around it. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about that day, you know…”

“Crowley!”

Aziraphale does rather a very bad job of not looking pleased. Flushed and pink, his hair in complete disarray, he frowns down at Crowley, eyes smiling.

“What?” The demon asks, quirking an eyebrow. “Did you never think of me, during?”

The angel’s flush deepens, but he does not look away.

“Well, yes," he admits, after a long moment. “Sometimes. Well.. most times.”

Any trace of uncertainty vanishes, replaced by heat. It is a different heat to the one which is fading, in Crowley's lower abdomen. Similar, but different.

Reaching up, the demon slides a hand around to stroke a wing joint. Aziraphale’s wing joint. Aziraphale who is pressed up against him, Crowley thinks, dazedly - half dressed and very aroused, eyes dark and cock hard against his thigh.

_Aziraphale._

“Good,” he hisses, a little drunk on the power of it all. “I want you to think of me.”

“I think of you,” the angel murmurs, leaning back in, pressing a kiss against his lips, his cheeks. “I think of you every time.”

“Fuck…”

They roll back into the pillows and the angel’s fingers find the zipper on the side of his dress. Then he’s sliding it gently free, the fabric catching. And the whole process takes so much longer than it should - because they won’t stop kissing for long enough to get the damned thing over Crowley’s head - but eventually they manage it.

The demon drops the silk over the edge of the bed and crawls back up, arriving just in time to help the angel kick free his trousers. He takes a moment to run admiring fingers along the thick tendons of his ankle, then withdraws his attentions northwards. Up a leg, then a thigh, then. hip.

“These, uh… off as well?” He asks, tugging a finger under the leg of the angel’s briefs - blue, not white, which is a surprise.

Aziraphale watches him shyly for a moment, then gives a nod.

“Okay… Yes.”

It’s a bit of a funny one, really, Crowley thinks, as he slides the fabric down his friend’s thighs. He had been able to see the shape of the angel’s cock pressing through the underwear, but it’s not the same as having him unveiled. It’s not the same as being able to see him hang away from his belly, fully erect, the same rich colour as his nipples.

It is a surreal moment. It is not the first time they’ve been completely naked in one another’s presence. It’s probably not even the fiftieth. They have walked this world a long time, the demon thinks. They have seen one another in a myriad of forms and disguises. Aziraphale’s physical form has been the most consistent of the two, but even that has changed, over the years. They bear scars from their past. Some things do not heal, even in immortal flesh. Moments of great emotional impact linger the longest.

The demon can still see the place where an arrow had been pulled from Aziraphale’s thigh. He can still see a pale circle on the angel’s shoulder, where his friend had once borne a bullet wound. Aziraphale has been a soldier, he thinks, in more ways than the abstract. Many of his battles have been fought here on Earth, whereas Crowley’s had been fought before the planet’s creation. They have both tasted their fair share of suffering. Perhaps that will help them understand and heal, he thinks, reaching a tentative hand out and tracing the mark on his friend’s shoulder.

“You are,” the demon mumbles, forgetting to be self-conscious in the intensity of the moment, “so fucking gorgeous…”

He knows he’s staring, but he cannot help himself. He’s wanted to trace his fingers along this body for so many years. He’s dreamt about that crease at the angel’s waist - spent hours of his life reliving the days of togas and the occasional glimpses of those nipples - jerked off to the soft spread of Aziraphale’s thighs more times than he can count.

And it’s more than that, too, the demon reminds himself. Because this is not some human who looks similar, whose beauty ends at the electricity firing through their physical form. This is his angel, sitting across from him. This is Aziraphale, in Aziraphale’s mortal shape. Aziraphale. His best friend. His mate.

_Fuck, that’s a thing._

_His mate._

Crowley reaches out to his friend, the same way he does when they both arrive in a crowded restaurant. A pulse of magic, searching for an echo. Usually, he will feel a corresponding tug - a connection, a pull, then the feeling of the angel letting go again - but not tonight. Tonight, they do not let go. They let themselves fall deeper into the connection, instead, as their bodies lean into one another.

Strong hands pull Crowley flush against a soft belly, push the heat of Aziraphale’s cock into his hip. They kiss, nudging into one another, Crowley in his element up against so much skin. He finds himself wishing he had more surface area, to lay up against the angel. He finds himself resenting the shape of his spine, which forces him to part his belly, in order to meet his friend’s mouth.

“Not to put too fine a point on it,” Aziraphale mumbles, after a minute, “but I may need to know what you need from me, fairly soon.” He sounds far less in control than before. His fingers have tightened on Crowley’s hip, halting the grinding motion the demon is making against him. “We can stay like this, but-,”

“Mm’nno! This is great,” he explains, when Aziraphale fixes him with an enquiring look. “Honestly, this is fucking amazing, but I, uh…” he falters, then realises there is no point in holding back. This is what he’s wanted for so long. Aziraphale, against him, the promise of it lasting. “I, uh… have slightly selfish visions about being fucked blind against the mattress, if it’s all the same to you?”

Aziraphale gives a breathy little laugh.

“That can be arranged.” Drawing his hips back, he kisses Crowley softly, giving them both a moment. “For full disclosure, I won’t last very long.”

“Angel, you’re going to be lucky to get inside me, before I’m done. This is all going to be a shambles.”

Aziraphale chuckles a bit, relaxing against him. And Crowley continues, because he can. Because making his friend laugh always lights a twin joy in his own gut.

“Honestly, I’ve already done three recitations of Revelations, backwards, and I’m about out of ideas for how to stave this off any further.”

Another chuckle.

“Darling, we can just snap our fingers.”

“Yeah, it’s never the same, though, is it?”

The angel sighs.

“And you go on at me, for doing things the human way…”

Crowley finds himself grinning against his friend’s neck, because he _does_ go on at Aziraphale for doing things the human way, but only because he knows this beautiful, ridiculous angel so well. Knows him. Loves him.

“Come on, then,” he lifts his face, presses a hard kiss against his friend’s neck. Untangling limbs, he rolls over onto his back. “Lets do this the human way.”

Aziraphale beams. 

“Right-o.”

He clambers over, to lean over Crowley, and the demon watches, feeling very warm inside. He feels suddenly very sure that he’s made a few good choices, these last six thousand years. Because - quite against his better judgement and contrary to the aesthetic he tries so hard to meet - he genuinely is turned on by Aziraphale muttering things like ‘right-o’ and ‘oopsie daisy’ as he crawls over him, nearly treading on a wing.

This is not to say he’s not horrified by the depths of his own depravity. He very much is. There’s probably something terribly wrong with him - getting all quivery and soft for a creature who wears pastels and speaks like someone’s maiden aunt. But, at the same time, he’s grudgingly impressed that Aziraphale is so Aziraphale, even in the bedroom. And it really is his thing, he thinks, lifting hands to stroke the arms that come down to rest on either side of him. Aziraphale really is his thing.

“Love you.”

The words are out of his mouth before he is even aware he’s going to speak them - a hangover of all the times he has caught himself and held back.

The confession is greeted with a delighted smile and a familiar nose nudging into the side of his neck - a murmured ‘I love you, too, my dear’.

Crowley swallows, closing his eyes.

As much as ‘darling’ thrills him, ‘my dear’ in this context is somehow more meaningful. It is an epithet linked into a thousand memories. The pair of them laughing over dinner, getting drunk in inns, and fields, and sharing stories on battlements. Aziraphale crying and Crowley not knowing whether he can reach out a hand in comfort. Aziraphale stroking the back of his neck, as he cleans a gash on the demon’s back.

‘My dear’ speaks of the thousand times they’ve leant near to one another, in the aftermath of some swelling emotion, and nearly confessed how much they meant to one another. An old pattern, gently nudged towards something new. Something better, Crowley thinks, pressing his face against his friend’s - against his mate’s. Something right.

“Come on.”

He slides a hand down between them, fingers rubbing at the dark flush of the angel’s nipples, over the softness of his chest. Any fears about his own prowess have now gone out the window. There is not enough room in his brain for anything but the sensation of angel. The feel of warm angel belly and the surprising solidness of Aziraphale’s arms. The soft downy hair over his thighs and the unbearable velvet heat of his cock.

Reaching between them, Crowley strokes the angel gently, a few times, revelling in the noises he makes. Stretching his legs apart, he gives his friend better access to his ass, tilts his hips in unspoken permission.

“May I?” The angel asks him, anyway.

“Mmh.” Crowley ducks his head in, sucking a kiss into the crook of his friend’s neck. “Yes. Fuck, angel. Now.”

His friend draws some sort of lubrication from the ether - Crowley can tell it is a miracle, because the fabric of reality shift around them, for a moment. And then Aziraphale is sliding wet fingers back, between his cheeks, tracing his entrance in tiny circular sweeps - around and around - and Crowley’s brain shorts out. He clutches too hard against his friend’s shoulder, fingernails digging in, causing Aziraphale to give an admonitory mumble against his chest.

“Sorry - fuck!” The miracled oil, or whatever it is, still has angel magic clinging to it. “…tickles.”

“Mm?”

“I want you in me.”

Aziraphale groans, thrusting against his leg.

It’s the first outward sign that he’s not as in control as he looks and it brings Crowley even further along.

“Fuck. Can we just-?”

“In a moment.”

“Angel!”

“Patience is-,”

“If you say ‘a virtue’, i’m going to-,” That clever warm finger presses slightly and then it is being pulled into him by the grip of his own body, and they both let out twin noises of need. “Fuck… fuck, fuck, f-,”

“Crowley?”

“M’fine.” He’s not. He’s fairly sure he’s melting. He needs the sting of taking far too much angel to pull him back from the edge. He only manages another thirty seconds and one more finger, before it all becomes too much. “Aziraphale,” he squeezes at an angelic shoulder. “I need-,”

He does not have to finish the sentence.

Aziraphale slides his fingers back out of him, leaning back to draw another handful of oil down and smooth it over his own skin.

“Roll over.”

Crowley does. A rushed, undignified scramble of limbs and wings, which ends with Aziraphale wrapping a hand around his hip and pulling him backwards. Ass to hips, belly to back. Leaning over him until the golden hair of his chest is brushing Crowley’s shoulder blades, the angel kisses the space between his wing joints.

“Let me know if it’s too much.”

“S’fine.” Crowley pants back, dribbling all over the sheets and trying not to think about how fast this is going to finish. “Super magic demon, remember? Can just…” He waves a hand, vaguely indicating a snap, a miracle, “if it’s too much, alright? I’ve got this. So, just… fuck me… Please?”

He feels a soft breathy laugh, against his shoulder blade.

“Okay, super magic demon.” The angel’s voice is low, full of intent.

He absolutely does not fuck him. It is lovemaking, without question.

Sinking into him slowly, Aziraphale sets a pace so painstaking that Crowley is reduced to whimpering and clutching at bedsheets. It is beautiful torture. Every slow drag of him sends an electric shock up Crowley’s spine. Every press sends a tightening through his thighs. He’s sweating more than any living creature has ever sweated. His cock is aching.

They fit together perfectly.

It is a stupid thought. They are not technically bound to one shape. That Aziraphale feels like he belongs inside him, therefore, should hardly mean anything profound - but it does. He does. They fit together perfectly. Aziraphale’s thighs are firm against the back of Crowley’s, their softness accepting the angle of his hips without question. The angel’s arms are bracketed against his sides, wings curling down around them. And they smell amazing, incredible - Aziraphale, but stronger.

“More,” the demon wriggles back against his friend, greedily. He is searching for a change in pace, but he gets something different.

Hooking an arm around his chest, Aziraphale hauls him backwards, up onto his thighs, cock finally pressing into a knot of nerves that hasn’t seen any more than the thin tips of his fingers in years. And Crowley lets out a subvocal moan.

“Okay?”

“Yes.” He feels very fizzy inside. Aziraphale pulls almost all the way out and then slides into him, in one long stroke. “Ah-!”

“More?”

“More.” He needs much more. He needs this every moment of every day, until the end of time. “More…”

More long, slow strokes, more rocking, twisting motions. More of his friend gasping against the back of his neck. More of the way their skin slips against one another’s. More of his lover’s face buried in the top of one dark wing. More of the way his own wings curl around, their feathers mixing, cutting them off from the world around them - making a place for just the two of them. Him and Aziraphale.

His Aziraphale.

Angel, angel, angel…

_Ah, shit._

He’s falling, sliding past the point of no return before even realising he’s up against it.

“Fuck, I’m going to come-,” he whimpers, all one word.

And his mind blanks.

Every part of him contracts - an electric shock of pure relief. His body clamps down around the intrusion of his best friend, causing Aziraphale to let out a low groan. The muscles in his legs tighten, sending him arching back against the angel’s chest. And then, he’s spilling into the cradle of Aziraphale’s soft fingers, jerking against him as he whimpers out the angel’s name. And everything is hot and wet, and fucking perfect.

“Oh, look at you, darling…”

The words, accompanied by the softest squeeze, draw a second, lesser peak out of Crowley and he squirm further back against Aziraphale, mumbling the most useless nonsense he’s ever mumbled. The outburst includes multiple confessions of love and quite a lot of blasphemy - but the angel does not seem to mind. He’s a little incoherent, himself.

Crowley realises why, just in time to hiss a few noises of encouragement. Then, movements becoming shorter and more staggered, Aziraphale slams still against him - fingers tight at his chest and hip.

“Fuck!”

“Yessss…” The demon is grinning stupidly, feeling his friend strain against him, riding out his own aftershocks. Fuck. This is brilliant. This is absolutely fucking brilliant. “Yes, angel…”

Aziraphale whines against the back of his neck, gives one final push, then goes a bit limp.

They sit, for a while, letting their breathing slow. Time seems less structured. Seconds seem slip by in slow motion, parsed into insignificance against the rapid fire of their hearts. The rain is still drumming away, against the windows, but the ferocity of the storm seems to have passed. Or, perhaps, it is them, Crowley thinks, closing his eyes in the heady calm of the afterglow. Perhaps they’ve rearranged some local weather patterns, with their electricity. It feels very possible, in the moment.

Behind him, Aziraphale (his lover, his mate) gives a very long sigh. Crowley hears his name in it and leans back, seeking contact. Their wings fold around them, a protective frame of another dimension. Fingers slide between fingers, giving reassurance with gentle touches and strokes. Soft things. All soft things.

It is bliss - comfortable in a way that ‘afterwards’ has never been, for Crowley. He has never shared his body with anyone who actually knew him, before. Afterwards had always been about pulling apart, extricating involvement. But not this time, he thinks. Because he knows Aziraphale. He knows him better than anyone. They have chosen one another, Crowley thinks, letting his head flop back against his friend’s. And he is bit sore, and stretched, and sticky in places he didn’t know gravity could reach, but he’s very fucking happy, with his back against his best friend’s belly.

It takes the sensation of Aziraphale sliding a little wetly out of him, before Crowley even considers moving.

“Sorry,” he opens his eyes, turning his face slightly to catch sight of a bit of forehead, of sweat dampened curls. “Should probably have asked if you wanted to clean up, or…?”

The hand in Crowley’s squeezes and the angel gives a muffled noise against his neck.

“Mmh. Normally, I’d say no, but - the way we’re sitting - I can’t actually feel my toes.”

“Oh, shit,” squirming forwards, the demon hastens to free the angel, who moves to sit against the headboard, instead of kneeling. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine, dear.”

“Didn’t know-,”

“It’s fine.”

Reaching out, Crowley tentatively touches a foot.

“Still numb?”

“Pins and needles.”

“Damn…”

“It’s fine.” Aziraphale repeats, for a third time, smiling softly. Kicking the duvet down, he makes space beside him, at the top of the bed. “Come here?”

Tentatively, Crowley crawls up, eyes following his friend’s hand as he snaps his fingers and produces a warm damp cloth, to wipe himself clean. Finished, Aziraphale lifts his eyebrows, asking the demon if he would like the same, but Crowley snaps his fingers, instead, vanishing the spend from across his belly and the slickness of the angel’s miracled oil from between his legs. (And if he decides to keep what Aziraphale left inside of him a little longer, well, that is between him and his God).

Nudging himself into place, at the top of the bed, there is an awkward little moment where neither of them know how to initiate contact. Then, Crowley rolls his eyes and leans closer. Pressing a messy kiss against the angel’s cheek, he flops his body down around him, folding his wings back and tugging the blanket up to cover them to their midriffs. Sliding a hand over, beneath the blankets, he strokes across his friend’s sides, playing idly with the dip around his navel, brushing salt from dried sweat at his hip.

That’s salt in his bed two nights in a row, the demon thinks, as Aziraphale nestles into him, pressing the tip of an upturned nose into his neck. This is the better of the two outcomes. The best, by far. Last night, he had stumbled back and dreamed of this. Today, it is a reality.

“My dear..." the angel pushes his face forwards, kissing the side of his neck. “I am sorry that it has taken us so long to get here.”

“Oi. Don’t-,”

Reaching over, he finds the angel’s hand, on top of the sheets. Bringing it back to his chest, he pushes it flat - the same way that Aziraphale had, earlier.

His heart is beating love like a jackhammer. He knows Aziraphale can feel it because, after a second or two, the feel of the angel’s magic begins to shifts around him. The love in it compounds, growing bigger and more complex until Crowley feels dizzy off the fumes of it. The peripheral sense of one another they often have is suddenly blown wide open - an unadulterated honesty that they’ve never quite shared, before. Magic open and mixing. But this is his reality, now, Crowley reminds himself. This is his life.

Aziraphale’s fingers press into his chest, then the angel gives a shaky little sigh and looks back up, to meet his eyes. He’s beaming - wet eyed, but happy.

“We’re going to be alright, aren’t we?” He asks, softly, as if it is a revelation - something beyond anything he has ever imagined, before. “We’re going to figure this out.”

“We probably have a couple dozen awkward conversations left,” Crowley grants, “but yeah, I think so.”

Aziraphale smiles at him - an easier smile this time.

“We’re a pair of something.”

“Yup.”

“Whatever that ‘something’ is.”

“Weirdos.”

“Crowley…”

“Weeeell, we are a bit.” The demon shifts his cheek, eyeing his partner. “Fucked off to another dimension, didn't we? Claimed it as our own. Abandoned our posts. Went native.”

“Went rogue,” the angel agrees, burrowing himself into the curve of Crowley’s shoulder.

“Lost in the pleasures of an Earthly world.”

“ _Understanding_ of the pleasures of an Earthly world.”

“No. I have seen you eat-,” Crowley hesitates, unsure if he’s allowed to say _that_ yet, “-cake,” he substitutes, smoothly. “I would say lost is accurate.”

Aziraphale cracks an eye open, looks up at him for a few seconds, then closes it again and wriggles closer to Crowley, smiling slightly.

“Speak for yourself, super magic demon.”

An uncomfortable joy soars up, within him.

“Fuck off…”

Aziraphale smiles, hand still stroking over Crowley’s heart, playing through the chest hair that had survived his last purge.

“I love you, super magic demon.”

“ _Ugh_.”

“I love you.”

Turning his head, Crowley buries red cheeks in a mess of curls.

“You’re such a bastard… I’m never speaking to you during, again.”

Aziraphale laughs, the sound low and rich.

“I’ll just lie there. Silent.”

“No you won’t. You love this.”

“Nnngh.”

“You do.” 

He does. He really does.

A finger strokes over the edge of his nipple on its progress down to his belly and Crowley feels a tiny rush of heat. Bodies, he thinks vaguely, pulling Aziraphale against the side of his chest, smiling as the angel’s free wing stretches then falls, limply over the pair of them. Bodies are fucking fantastic. This is fucking fantastic. He and Aziraphale are really here, in these bodies - using them to speak love, in the language of a world they were never made for. And it is completely fucking fantastic.

“Well,” the angel beside him sighs. “I suppose I owe you a story.”

“Hm?”

“As promised - my introduction to the art of fellatio.”

Crowley pulls a face, both horrified and, at the same time, absolutely sure this is how he wants to spend the next five to ten minutes.

“Remind me,” he snarks, anyway. “Was it Titian or Bellini who painted ‘the art of fellatio’?”

The angel chuckles. Leans against him.

“Well, it was a dark and stormy night in August… and I had a friend, at the time, who was a fan of the opera…”

“Oh, bloody hell,” the demon mutters, but he snuggles in to listen, regardless.

By the time Aziraphale is finished, about seven minutes later, his body has more than recovered enough for second attempt at the real thing.

.


	10. Aziraphale

.

He finds Crowley down on the beach the next morning, taking a phone call while calf-deep in water. The demon's jeans are rolled up and he is wearing Aziraphale’s shirt from the night before - the shape of it endearingly oversized, on his narrow frame. 

The angel tries not to disturb his friend as he walks closer, but Crowley notices him as he broaches the tideline. Those golden eyes have always been a bit keener than a humans, Aziraphale thinks, as his friend turns his head and beckons him closer. Crowley has always been able to see in the dark, and through fog, and halfway behind him. Aziraphale is not sure if it is a snake thing, a demon thing, or just a Crowley thing. Either way, his heart leaps when slivers of black pupil find him, over the rim of dark sunglasses.

‘ _Just a minute_ ’, Crowley mouths, pointing to the phone in his hand.

Aziraphale nods and slip-slides over the last few feet of pebbles, coming to stand on the shore.

He is in no rush, this morning. The hour is early and they are among the few creatures awake. They have time on their side, the angel thinks, with a smile. It is something he does not take for granted now, after Armageddon, but it is true nonetheless. Compared to humans, he and Crowley have time. Time for more of this, Aziraphale thinks, pressing a few stones flat. Time for endless slow mornings.

The angel lowers himself down on the rocks, crossing his legs at the ankle. There is a temptation, sometimes, to miracle the world around them softer, but Aziraphale does not feel it, today. Today, the stones are hard, but he has a good view and better company. And, more than that, he has the personally unique experience of knowing that those things are going to continue. It has left him in rather an excellent mood.

“You can’t just say something like that to a lawyer,” his best friend is groaning, down the phone, kicking long legs through the surf and miraculously not getting any up the front of his trousers. “They come over all funny about threats on people’s lives…”

It is Matthieu on the other end of the line, Aziraphale thinks. The cadences Crowley employs, with the humans, are subtly different but consistent. Aziraphale has grown used to them, over the past few days. He’s grown used to the humans, too. He’d even started to wonder if it were possible for them to stay in touch, after the job finished. It is always nice, after all, to have friends in the human world - even if the relationships are destined to be temporary. But this is work, he reminds himself, again. For Crowley, at least, these humans cannot be personal.

His eyes track the demon, pacing slowly back and forth through the waves, arguing good-naturedly with Matthieu about a board meeting he will never actually attend. His movements are languid, loose hipped. He looked relaxed. A little sleepy.

The rest of the city feels that way, also. At just past six, it is only just starting to come alive. Along the promenade, a few humans are beginning to emerge, to start their daily routines. A couple is jogging along the waterfront, talking breathlessly. A dog is barking at a passing car. A handful of hotel staff yawn their way towards early starts, coffees clutched in hand. Aziraphale smiles at them all, feeling the warmth that bathes the area, in the aftermath of the storm - in the afterglow of his and Crowley’s magic. People will find their lives just a little more chaotic and happy today, he thinks. The world will be a little brighter than usual.

The way their magics mix is an interesting thing. He and Crowley had started The Arrangement on the understanding that they cancelled one another out, but Aziraphale thinks his friend's ‘balance’ theory is actually more appropriate. Their powers do not nullify. They meet in the middle, instead, creating something chaotically neutral. And Aziraphale can live with that, he thinks. He can more than live with it.

In the sea, Crowley shifts his weight onto one foot, using the opposite to pick at the stones under the surface. Aziraphale watches, feeling familiarity burn.

He knows each one of those long toes. He has known them for six thousand years. He has seen them blistered from walking through deserts and bruised from fights. He has cleaned cuts and burns upon them. Has admired the paint that Crowley uses, to decorate his nails, the dye he uses, to mark his skin.

Crowley has always found beauty in things that are meant to divide, the angel thinks. He has always seemed most free, when bedecked in clothing or adornment meant to categorise and label. Crowley has never been one thing and his work reflects that, Aziraphale thinks. This project, taken on on behalf of Hell, is not just about one soul. It is about all the change that affecting one soul can afford.

It had taken the angel years to see that Hell - and Heaven - did not understand the complexity of life on Earth. They assigned blessings and temptations for single humans, and gave out commendations for sweeping religious movements, but they did not understand the importance of the every day. The fate of most humans was decided by systems, the angel thinks. Human systems, which become entrenched in themselves, which stagnate and imprison those trapped within them. Heaven and Hell will continue to have little impact on Earth until they understand that, Aziraphale thinks. But that sits fine with this angel.

He watches Crowley pick up a stone between his toes. Drop it again.

Heaven and Hell can continue to nudge at the edges of the world, he thinks. And he and Crowley can continue to push change at its centre - breaking patterns, creating contrast, allowing the humans to do what they will with the choices they provide. 

Looking at the phone in the demon's hand, the angel wonders what Hell’s target will do, when the sibling’s father’s company is dissolved. From what he has heard about the man, from Matthieu and Mariam, the loss of control will fill him with rage. How that is directed will come down to a lot of factors, but Crowley has laid enough groundwork for the fallout to happen away from his family. Hell had ordered one soul tempted and it would get one soul tempted. (And the fall out of Crowley's actions would affect change for hundreds. Possibly thousands).

Nothing is set in stone, Aziraphale thinks. Like the demon had told him, the other day, there are too many variables involved to know, with any certainty, what will happen. Even the uncle’s fate is not written. Mariam had spoken to him about wanting to build bridges, after the funeral. As Aziraphale offered condolences, the young woman had sighed and said ‘ _we have all been fighting our own battles for too long_ ’.

She had made up with her brother. Perhaps they will make up with their uncle, given time, Aziraphale thinks, staring back out to sea. Perhaps they won’t. The siblings will be okay, either way. They have one another, now, and Jacob. And that is the point of life on Earth, the angel thinks. Connection. Not being alone.

He folds his hands in his lap, watches Crowley cock a hip.

The demon is especially beautiful in the early light - skin a little iridescent, hair a little wild. The fact that he’s wrapped in Aziraphale’s shirt is doing things for the angel, too. Even if it meant he'd had to summon another, to walk down here, he finds himself very glad Crowley that had felt comfortable in taking it. The action speaks of belonging. Of sharing. Of the life they want, together.

Suddenly, the love welling up within Aziraphale feels too great. He realises he is smiling and - on instinct - looks hurriedly away, to prevent Crowley from noticing. Then, he realises that it doesn’t matter if Crowley notices. His friend already knows how he feels, he realises, with a start. They both know. They’ve both decided they want to act on it.

He looks back round and finds his mate watching him, a frown creasing his brow.

‘ _What_?’ Crowley mouths - clearly interpreting the grin to be a reaction to something he’s done.

But that is not the case at all, the angel thinks. He is only smiling because he is in love. (And a bit because he is soft). But that is okay, he reminds himself. Last night he had called himself soft and Crowley had said that it was perfect - that he was perfect. And nobody had ever called Aziraphale perfect, before. The words had lit pleasure right up his spine. It was lovely. It was wonderful. 

He smiles wider. 

‘ _What_?’ Crowley mouths again, throwing out an indignant hand.

“Nothing, dear boy,” Aziraphale replies, out loud, hearing his own voice carry surreally through the morning air - only just audible over the rushing of the surf. “Nothing at all.”

Crowley rolls his eyes, then stoops to select a pebble, from under the waves. Looking away from Aziraphale, he paces back and forth, continuing his phone conversation while weighing the small stone in his hand.

“Listen, talk to Neil on Monday and I’ll get my guy to expedite our end of things.” He flips the pebble over, rubbing long fingers along its smooth surface. “And call your sister. She has more experience in this than the pair of us, combined, alright? Yeah… Right… Uh huh…”

Aziraphale watches, cataloguing the creases of those fingers. Like the demon’s toes, he has known them for millennia. He has seen them work curiously over things for six thousand years. But, now, he knows them up close, too. He knows the strength of them, slipped between his own - what the tips of them feel like, curled around the back of his neck. He knows how they tighten and scrabble for purchase as the demon breaks, and gasps, and comes beneath him.

Aziraphale lets out a slow breath, a soft noise of pleasure.

In the sea, Crowley attempts to skim his stone across the surface of the sea. Despite the strength in his long arms, the first attempt fails, plummeting through the surface into the dark waves. A second stone manages two bounces. The third, however, skims right out of sight - a supernatural achievement, Aziraphale thinks, smiling as his friend casts a look back, to check that he is watching.

_Show off…_

_(But only for him)._

“Well, suppose I’ll catch you later, then,” Crowley says, down the phone. He sounds a little distracted, now.On the other end of the line, Matthieu must sense it, because he wraps things up. They agree to meet at the hotel, before the young human catches his flight home. There is a brief thank you. Then, a few sentences which Aziraphale suspects are something of a more personal note - because Crowley’s expression shifts from impatience to one of mild embarrassment. “Yeah, yeah, alright. I’ll tell him,” the demon grumbles and Aziraphale wonders if he’s the ‘him’ being referred to, before becoming sure of it, at his friend’s next words. “No need to sound so smug...”

He smiles, looking away from Crowley's pink cheeks - staring out at the sea, as he listens to Matthieu being told to sod off, (a statement at odds with the fondness in the demon’s voice) and then bid farewell to. A few moments pass, in silence. Then, he hears his friend clap the phone case shut, and splash back towards shore.

He looks up as the demon reaches his side, hands shoved in his pockets, expression caught somewhere between awkward and eager.

“Hey.” 

“Good morning,” Aziraphale smiles up at him.

“Morning, angel.” Crowley’s dark glasses are glinting in the pale light, eyes not quite visible through the tint. “You didn’t need to come down here, you know?” He mutters, running long fingers self-consciously through the hair knotted at the back of his head. “I just didn’t want to wake you… Was heading back up, in a minute.”

“I know.” The angel knows he is still grinning like a buffoon, but cannot find it in himself to stop. He’s thinking about their shared bed, in Crowley's hotel room - waking in their nest of sheets, during the night, to find Crowley snoring against him. He’s thinking of the note he’d found on the pillow, half an hour ago, speared by a dark feather and bearing the scribbled intimation that Crowley had to pop out, but would be back soon, with coffee. Signed with a 'C' and an 'x'. “I just missed you.”

“ _Ugh_. Don’t be a prat… I was only gone twenty minutes.” Despite the tone, the demon looks pleased. Stepping out of the water, he flops down next to Aziraphale, wincing a bit at the impact. Aziraphale supposes he has rather less padding, to protect himself, (and is probably also a bit tender, this morning).

“Everything okay?” He asks Crowley, softly.

It is a catch-all question. It covers ‘are your plans with the humans all going as expected’? And ‘how are you feeling, physically’? And all the rest, too. ( _Are you panicking, yet, about this new thing that we’re chasing, together? Are you as scared as I am? Are you as happy? Do you want to kiss me? God, I want to kiss you...)_

Folding his hands in his lap, Aziraphale watches his friend tug at the cuffs of his jeans, rubbing free a few drops of salt spray. Eventually, pushing his feet down into the pebbles and rests his forearms on his knees, Crowley looks around at him.

“Yeah,” he nods, after a short pause. “I’m good.” His voice is soft, but sure. He sounds calm, and that calms Aziraphale, in turn. “You?”

“Yes.” The angel nods. “Very.”

They stare at one another for a few long seconds, Aziraphale’s eyes snagging on the shape of his friend’s mouth - cheeks flushing as he realises Crowley has caught him watching.

“Good morning, angel,” the demon murmurs, smile slipping over his face. Then, causing a flush of delight to flare up the back of Aziraphale’s neck, Crowley leans in.

It is a shy move - an invitation rather than a taking of something. He stops short of their mouths actually meeting, but Aziraphale completes the action for him.

Nose nudging gently into Crowley's soft cheek, the angel presses a kiss into his friend’s mouth. Then, a second. Then, a third - head swimming with the realisation that it is one another that they are kissing. That he is kissing _Crowley_. That the demon is kissing back. That they are in public, and sober, and that there is no excuse for this besides the fact that they want to. This is a kiss for the sake of a kiss, Aziraphale thinks, with soaring elation. This is their choice - their future, if they want it.

And he does want it. He wants it so very much.

“Good morning, darling,” he murmurs, forcing himself to draw back after several deep, languid kisses. “Oh, it's so nice to be able to do that..." The angel gives a little sigh. "I suppose we’ll have to get a grip on ourselves, at some point, won't we? Can’t spend the rest of the time locked together at the lips...”

The demon shrugs, looking as though he’d be willing to give it a try, if Aziraphale asked.

“I reckon we’re due at least a week of being utterly disgusting.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah. Maybe a month.”

The angel gives a ‘huff’ of laughter, looking down at the demon’s hand, which is resting on his knee.

He can feel the warmth of Crowley’s skin through the fabric of his trousers - can feel the demon’s shoulder brushing softly against his back.

“How are the humans?” Aziraphale asks, in lieu of shouting his love for all the beachfront to hear.

“Oh, muddling through...” Crowley sighs, withdrawing to take up his previous position - knees pulled up to his chest, arms around knees. “Matthieu stayed up all night making arrangements for the sale and Mariam has already signed her part of it. They’ve instructed their lawyers to make the announcement later this afternoon. So, I imagine, their uncle will hear about it with the rest of the board.”

“How will you know if the temptation worked?”

The demon shrugs.

“I’ll stick around for a day or two. Observe. Step in to nudge things if I need to. The uncle is based just up the coast. I was going to drive up that way this afternoon, after Mariam and Matthieu have checked out.” Casting a sideways look at the angel, he looks briefly nervous. “Do you, uh... have a return flight booked?”

“No.” Aziraphale fiddles with his thumb nail. “I didn’t know how long I’d be. Thought I’d just purchase a ticket when I needed one.”

“Right."

They watch one another for a long few seconds.

“Well, if you’re not flying, I could give you a lift home?” The demon suggests, carefully.

Aziraphale watches him, feeling his belly give a very cliche swoop.

“It’s a bit of a drive, Crowley...”

“Well, luckily, I’ve got a bit of a car.”

“You’re really going to drive all the way back to London?”

“Ngh." Crowley pulls a face. "I mean, yeah, if I have company. Its not that big a deal. It would only take a day or two.” He exhales, shrugs. “I just… thought it might be nice, you know? Head up through wine country… stop in on Paris… We could get crêpes, on the Seine, for old times’ sake.” Aziraphale watches the demon's eyes slide over towards him, over the rim of his glasses, golden irises bright and pupils narrow in the sun. “What do you think?”

“Are you trying to seduce me with crêpes?”

It is a flirtation beyond anything Aziraphale would have dared, in the past.

Crowley's expression flashes with delight.

“I don’t have to seduce you with crêpes anymore, remember?” He grins, flicking an eyebrow. “I can use my ass like the Lord intended.”

“Crowley…”

But the demon is grinning wider - grinning and reading Aziraphale’s acceptance in his smile, before words have even reached his lips.

“Oh, alright,” the angel speaks them, regardless. “I suppose, that would be rather nice. If you really don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind,” Crowley confirms, watching him a few seconds longer, before turning back towards the sea. “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go, angel. Anywhere at all.”

It is an open ended offer of commitment. A new concept, formed of old words.

They have come so far, Aziraphale thinks, from that night where he had handed Crowley a thermos of holy water, under the neon lights of soho. They have faced threats they could never have expected - lost and gained so very much. They still have a multitude of details to discuss; what they want to keep, from their old lives, and what they want to let go. There are negotiations they need to have, regarding boundaries and belief systems. They need to talk about what happens on the bad days, as well as on the good, and what they both want, from the future.

It will be difficult, Aziraphale thinks, drawing eyes over the demon’s sharp profile. Once they are back in London, everything will feel a lot more real. They will have to deal with the practicalities of a life together. A lot of that, he feels unprepared for. There is one part, however, that he feels confident in saying right away.

“I have enjoyed this, you know?”

“Mm?” Crowley looks back around, quirking an eyebrow.

“Working together,” the angel clarifies. “I know that I only chipped in the occasional miracle, but it was unexpectedly lovely, working together, for common purpose.”

“S’not like it’s the first time,” the demon reminds.

“Well, it is, out in the open.”

“Well, if you think about it that way… yeah, I guess it is.”

Aziraphale takes a steadying breath.

“I was thinking that we might be able to do it again, some time. Not on every project,” he adds quickly, as Crowley looks over. “I do appreciate that we should have some things that are entirely our own - especially if we are going to spend more time together. It is important to have space. But I thought, if there was the occasional project that we were both interested in... and it was something that could benefit from both of our skillsets... Well, it might be nice to work together. Don’t you think?”

Crowley holds his gaze for the span of ten rapid heartbeats. Then, he looks down, frowning at his knees. It is an overwhelmed expression, not a negative one, Aziraphale thinks, leaning a shoulder into his friend’s side. Crowley just needs a moment to take it all in. And that is okay, the angel reminds himself. They have time on their side.

“Guess we could,” the demon murmurs, after a minute of listening to waves lapping against the shore. “If that’s something that you want?”

“It is.”

“Right…”

“I mean - it is, so long as you want it, too.”

“I do.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. I want that.”

“Yes?”

“Yeah. Us working together,” Crowley shrugs, "sometimes.”

“Oh.” The angel breathes out. “Oh, good.”

He watches his friend’s sharp profile, gathering courage to finish the sentiment in the way he wants to - the way he has been ruminating over, since waking.

“I was thinking that I might write to Heaven, too,” he tells the demon, tentatively, trying not to equivocate as his friend’s breaths stall and his expression becomes fixed. “I doubt they’ll want anything to do with us, but it seems the right move - seeing as you’ve already been in contact with both them and Hell, to state your position.” He gives a shaky exhale, feeling flustered and a bit silly, but committed nonetheless. “I’d like them to know about us. Know that… that this is the life that I’ve chosen, and we have a stake in what happens, here on Earth. I am not looking for their approval,” he adds, as Crowley looks up from his hands. “It’s more what you said, the other day… They need to understand that this is our world, too, and that we will defend it. And one another.”

Crowley swallows.

“Is that…” Aziraphale blinks at him, nervously. “Would that be okay?” 

The demon holds very still for a few seconds. Then, slowly, he nods.

“Yeah. That would be okay, angel.”

“Oh.” Relief flows through him, light and sweet. “Excellent.”

The corner of Crowley’s mouth twitches, slightly - something towards a smile.

Suddenly overwhelmed by the need to see him properly, Aziraphale reaches out, brushing the frame of his glasses.

“May I?”

“Yeah. Go on.”

He nudges them up to rest on the top of his friend’s head, unveiling familiar golden eyes.

“There. Much better.”

“Did you want to see if I was tearing up?” the demon asks, fixing him with admittedly slightly over-bright eyes. 

“No, actually. I’m just rather fond of your face.”

“Well. So you should be. I’m very pretty.”

Aziraphale smiles as he leans in, pressing a kiss against the hard edge of a cheekbone.

“Yes. Yes, you are.”

“Nngh…”

A hand slides around the back of his neck, preventing him from pulling away, again - guiding themforwards into a half-hug. Giving a little sigh, the angel relaxes into the motion, forehead coming to rest against Crowley’s temple, cheeks pressed together.

It is exceedingly comforting, to be held so close. All he can see is a blur of demonic chin and the sea, beyond. All he can hear is Crowley’s soft breaths and the rush of water, the soft thud of his own heartbeat in his ears. All he can smell is the mix of Crowley and sea salt. And a little of himself, if he concentrates hard enough. A mix of the two of them. Something old and familiar, exciting and new.

Long fingertips play through the hair at the nape of his neck, lulling Aziraphale into such a state of relaxation that he could happily have closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.

They sit that way for a good few minutes, before Crowley straightens away from him.

“Ugh, it’s early,” he stretches, drops his head back to crack his neck. “And my ass is numb.”

Aziraphale gives a small, wistful sigh at the loss of contact.

“Would you like to head back?”

“Might as well,” the demon throws him a slightly veiled glance. “Don’t have to check out till eleven. Could get five hours of napping in, before then. Seems a shame to waste the bed.”

“Oh,” the angel blinks. “I'd rather assumed it was breakfast time.”

Crowley’s face splits in a grin.

“Of course you had…”

“We don’t have to. If you’re tired-,”

“Nh. Not tired.” Leaning forwards, Crowley pulls himself up to his feet, then reaches back down, offering his hand. “How about breakfast in bed?”

“Oh,” the angel brightens, taking his friend’s hand and allowing himself to be pulled upright. “Yes, that would be delightful.”

“You realise I wasn’t actually suggesting we took a nap, right?” The demon asks, as they set off towards the city, feet sliding over pebbled beach. His shoes are miraculously back on his feet and his fingers are still wrapped around Aziraphale’s.

“Well, I suspected,” the angel admits, “but I didn’t want to assume. You do enjoy your sleep.”

“S’all relative, though, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Enjoyment. It's a whole sliding scale… thing.”

“Is it, really?” Their voices start to blend in with the noise of the city, as they reach the edge of the beach and clamber back onto the pavement, heading towards the hotel. “You’ll have to draw it out for me, some time,” the angel suggests.

“Maybe I will.”

“We could post it on the wall, so that I can plan our weeks optimally.”

“Good idea. It goes,” Crowley holds his free hand flat, around his waist level, “that feeling you get when someone falls for the classic glue-a-coin-to-the-pavement trick,” the hand raises to chest height, “sleeping for a solid week and waking up to fresh coffee,” the hand lifts over his head, “your mouth around c-,”

“Crowley!”

“I was going to say ‘ _cake_ ’,” the demon gasps, all false shock and wounded pride. “We are in _public,_ angel!"

Aziraphale clicks his tongue.

“Honestly.”

“ _Honestly_..." Crowley is in his element, throwing his head back, hair like fire in the early morning light. "What a dirty mind.”

“You are ridiculous.”

"Dirty..."

“Absolutely ridiculous.”

The demon throws him a sly grin.

“You like it.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah, you like me.”

The words catch Aziraphale somewhere in the gut.

He blinks.

“You know, I do, actually,” he answers, a little dazed by the sureness of his response, a smile creeping across his face. "I really, really do." 

Crowley falters, missing a step. Then, his face performs a quickfire series of expressions. Surprise, and then joy, and then embarrassment. He settles on bravado, in the end, throwing himself back into walking with slightly too much enthusiasm and nearly tripping over an uneven patch of paving.

"Well." He looks pointedly off around them, mouth tight with practiced disinterest. "So you should. I'm a catch.”

Aziraphale squeezes his best friend’s hand a little tighter, but does not answer - because he knows there is only so much praise a demon can take, at such an early hour of the morning, (and because he is a gentle angel, by default).

He cannot help whispering a tiny ‘ _I love you_ ’, though. It slips out, a little unintentionally, as they make their way back onto the pavement that heads through the park. And Crowley pretends not to react, but his grip on Aziraphale’s hand tightens a little. And it stays there - all the way back to the hotel.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we finally did it - it's done! 
> 
> A big thank you so much to everyone who subscribed (honestly, I'm blown away and honoured by the response) and everyone who took the time to leave such wonderful comments. Every one of your vowels and consonants has been scooped up, appreciated, and used as motivation.
> 
> Lastly, one last huge THANK YOU to AJ, who supported, beta read, illustrated, and came up with the ending for this story, when I was having a total brain block. I couldn't have asked for a better artist. Total collab win. 
> 
> See you all soon with something new,
> 
> -C

**Author's Note:**

> Find me lurking on IG, Twitter, and Tumbr @heycaricari


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